


Perils of the Past

by arts_and_letters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, angst and hurt come at the beginning, comfort comes later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1988247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of an unthinkable tragedy, Sherlock and John must find a way to help each other heal as Sherlock works to bring the perpetrators to justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Celebration

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set post-series 3, but I’ve made a couple of changes to the general storyline. First of all, Mary isn’t pregnant. In this universe, Sherlock did kill Magnussen, but I’m just going to pretend that Mycroft got him off without any charges, because I’m completely ignoring everything that happened in HLV post-Appledore, including the whole Moriarty cliffhanger.
> 
> I’m not sure how many chapters this will end up being, but I’ve got about 20,000 words written so far. This first chapter is a bit slow, more of an introduction really, but things will really pick up in chapter 2.
> 
> Lastly, for plot-related reasons, I selected "chose not to use archive warnings," but this story won't contain "triggering" content, aside from potential drug use which is already listed in the tags. I went back and forth about this, so if you'd like more explicit warnings/spoilers, let me know.

 “Remind me again why I’m preparing to waste an entire evening socializing with some of my _least_ favorite people.” 

Sherlock and John are standing in the living room of John and Mary’s flat, both dressed up in their formal tuxes. Sherlock is staring at himself in the mirror on the wall, occasionally ruffling his hair with his hands. 

“You’re doing this because you need to make nice to Scotland Yard if you want them to let you in on anymore cases.”

“Shouldn’t they be ‘making nice’ to me? After all, their incompetence did drive me to an early grave.” 

At the shadow that comes over John’s face, Sherlock pauses and asks, “Too soon?” 

He was hoping for a good-natured _A bit too soon_ but there isn’t any trace of humor on John’s face—a bad sign—although no punches have been thrown—always a good sign—and the tension in his face is quickly replaced by a warm smile as Mary enters the room.   

Mary and John share a quick kiss, and John holds his arm out for her, which she gracefully accepts. 

Mary then directs her attention to Sherlock, extends her arm, and smiles warmly when Sherlock makes a show of gallantly planting a chaste kiss on the top of her hand. 

She then asks, playfully, “Will you be escorting us to the ball tonight, Mr. Holmes?” 

“It would be my honor, Mrs. Watson, although I believe it would be more appropriate to say that _you_ are escorting _me_. I certainly can’t imagine any other reason for your husband to fetch me and bring me back here, when it would have been much more efficient for us to arrive separately.” 

“But this is much more fun,” Mary responds, cheerfully. 

“And this is the only way I could make sure he would actually show up,” John adds under his breath. 

“I heard that.” 

“You hear everything.” 

“Come on, boys, we’re running late as it is without you two getting into a pissing match.”

Without any further delay, they leave the flat, and head out to the street, where they get in a taxi that takes them to their destination.

 

 

When they arrive, Lestrade is waiting for them out front. The first thing he says is,  “I was afraid you lot weren’t going to show.”

John responds immediately with, “We would have been here sooner if someone didn’t have to waste so much time on personal grooming.” 

Looking over to Mary, Lestrade says, “Ah, well, can’t complain too much then. You are looking very lovely tonight, Mrs. Watson.”  
  
“You’re too kind, Greg, but John wasn’t talking about me.” 

When Lestrade looks over to Sherlock, the man in question shrugs. 

“John told me I was supposed to look presentable.”  
  
“I meant wear a suit.”

“You should be more specific then.”

“You knew what I meant. You were just wasting time.”  
  
Mary’s breaks in with a warning of, “Boys—” 

And that’s enough to end it. 

The four of them enter a hall filled with multiple circular tables, seating eight people each. Already most of the seats are occupied by men and women clad in formal attire, talking in hushed voices. 

To the other three, Greg says, “You lot are at the table up front.”  
  
“How about this table in the far corner back here? Much better view.”  
  
Ignoring Sherlock’s protests, John gives him a shove in the appropriate direction. 

As they take their seats, Sherlock is scanning the room and, as ever, deducing. 

_Formal attire, no one’s died, no annual event, no signs, not an awards banquet, no birthdays, no retirements_  
  
“John, why exactly are we here tonight?”  
  
“I told you, Sherlock—” 

But before John can finish his sentence, Lestrade makes his way to the stage in the front of the room, where he stands in front of the microphone, and starts to speak.  
  
“Good evening, everyone. I appreciate you taking the time to join me for this special event.”  
  
 _Special Event._ That sounds ominous.

“It’s my great pleasure to be here tonight to make a tribute to my good friend and colleague—even if he still doesn’t know my first name—” 

Everyone in the audience laughs appreciatively, except for Sherlock, who sends a fierce look John’s way, before preparing to bolt out of his chair. John is faster though, grabbing Sherlock by his shoulder and shoving him back down.

“Behave, Sherlock.”  
  
“You brought me here under false pretenses.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s not like I had any other choice.”  
  
Giving up any hope of escape—for the time being, at least—Sherlock returns his attention to Lestrade. 

“All of you know who I’m talking about. Some know him by reputation alone, but many of you have had the honor—and at times, misfortune—of working with him.”

Another laugh, another glare from Sherlock.  
  
“Now, if everyone would raise their glasses, I’d like lead a to toast to Sherlock Holmes, one of the best men I’ve ever had the privilege to know.”  
  
Glasses are raised, clinked, and then returned to the table tops—except for Sherlock, who is sitting silently with his arms crossed. 

After the toast, Lestrade continues. “I’m sure he’s going to give me hell for this, but we’ve put together a tribute video, so without further delay, let’s dim the lights—”

Lestrade pauses, looks in Sherlock’s direction, catches sight of him trying to escape again, and adds, “Sherlock, don’t make me handcuff you to that table.”

John kicks Sherlock under the table for good measure. 

“Is this event meant to celebrate me or punish me?”  
  
“It’s a bit of both.” 

Sherlock does his best to drown out the video playing in his honor by planning out the murder of each guest in attendance. He then considers feigning a heart attack, or trying to set fire to something, but before he can settle on a plan, the video ends, and Lestrade is back in front of the microphone.

“Now, I’d like to welcome onto the stage the man of honor.”  
  
Sherlock remains sitting in his chair, with his arms folded in front of him.  
  
John gives him a shove, and says, “The sooner you get up there, the sooner this will all be over with.” 

Sherlock sends a pleading look in Mary’s direction, but she just smiles at him and makes a “shoo-ing” motion with her hands. 

With a sigh, he pushes himself up from the table and makes his way up to the stage. 

Once he’s on the raised platform, standing next to Lestrade, he looks out at the crowd, although he has to squint against the bright lights focused in his direction. He recognizes most of the people in attendance, including a table in the back filled with some members of his "fan club." He’s less than pleased to see Anderson there, holding up an “I believe in Sherlock Holmes” sign. To make matters worse, when he catches Sherlock’s eye, Anderson starts waving frantically. 

After quickly breaking eye contact, Sherlock turns his attention back to the rest of the audience, and starts to wonder, is he supposed to be saying something? 

Everyone seems to be staring at him expectantly, so he starts with, “Thank you Ga—” 

He catches sight of John mouthing “Greg,” which he chooses to ignore.   

“Garrison, for ambushing me with this little tribute, although I’m not yet clear on whether this is your idea of a practical joke or a misguided attempt to curry favor with me.”  
  
Lestrade claps him on the back fondly, and then reaches under the pedestal, and hands Sherlock a package, wrapped in silver paper. “We got you a little token of our appreciation—” 

“It better not be another hat.”  
  
More laughs, clearly no one realizes how deadly serious he is.  
  
“No hat, this time. Why don’t you open it up and take a look?”  
  
After giving Lestrade a suspicious glare, he slowly opens the wrapping, and then pulls the lid off the box. 

Inside, nestled in a tissue paper lining, is a magnifying glass. He picks it up delicately, and examines it.

_Expensive, titanium enclosure it, well made, sturdy, attractive, but not ostentatious._  
   
Quietly, Lestrade says, “Take a look at the other side.” 

Sherlock turns it around and catches sight of the engraving:  
  
 _To Sherlock Holmes, with affection and admiration_

He starts to say, “Well, this is—” 

Before he can go any further, he sees John on his right giving him a warning look, and then he looks over to his left to see Lestrade looking hopeful, pleased, and just a little bit nervous. 

He swallows his original response and instead goes with, “Thank you, Greg, the sentiment and the gift are very much appreciated.”

Lestrade smiles at him broadly, while addressing the audience, “And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is probably the nicest thing you’ll ever hear him say. Now let’s give Sherlock a round of applause.”  
  
As everyone claps loudly, Sherlock says to Lestrade, under his breath, “I’m still not clear on why all of this is happening.” 

Lestrade turns off the microphone, before answering.  
  
“Sherlock, you’ve done more good for this department, and for me, then we could ever put into words, and we—I repaid you by deserting you at the first sign of trouble. After everything that’s happened, this is the least we could do.” 

“You really didn’t have to.”  
  
“Yeah, but we wanted to.” 

Sherlock doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so he only nods his head in acknowledgement.

Apparently that’s good enough for Lestrade, who shoves him towards the stage exit and says, “Now go sit down. I know you’re dying to get out of the spotlight.”  
  
The rest of the evening is relatively uneventful. He does have to give his autograph to the more desperate members of his fan club, and he gets stuck in several insufferably long conversations with a few stultifying morons, but on the whole, he survives more or less unscathed, and as a reward for his (relatively) good behavior, John and Mary go with him to Angelo’s for a late night snack. It’s almost like the way things were before The Fall.

 

In the days and weeks that follow, Sherlock will often look back on this night with a certain measure of melancholy and nostalgia. Of course, at the time, he had no way of knowing what this night truly signified. 

The calm before the storm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a hefty dose of foreshadowing! Thanks for reading the first chapter of what is shaping up to be my longest work to date. I hope you’ll stick around for the rest of it. The first five chapters are mostly finished and the rest of it is all mapped out and partially written. Next chapter should be up very soon.


	2. The Phone Call

The next day, John and Sherlock are relaxing at Baker Street, enjoying morning tea courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock is in the middle of composing, but as soon as John opens up the newspaper, he interrupts Sherlock’s playing to say,  “Sherlock, how is it that we all end up on the front page of the newspaper, but you’re the one standing next to my wife?” 

Sherlock walks over and takes the paper from John.  
  
“I suppose you’ll have to take it up with—” 

Sherlock pauses, glancing at the photo credit.

“Edna Wilson.” 

He then reads the caption out loud.

“Sherlock Holmes along with his partner in crime—how clever—John Watson, and Watson’s wife, Mary.” 

Sherlock tosses the paper back to John. 

“I can’t see what on earth you have to complain about. Thanks to this newspaper, you grew almost a foot over night.”

John gives him a glare and tries to smack him with the rolled up newspaper, but Sherlock gracefully dodges the blow. 

Then they both have a good laugh before settling back into their respective activities. 

 

 

A few days later, Sherlock is in the middle of one of his latest experiments when he gets a text from Lestrade: 

_Got something I’d like you to take a look at._

Sherlock then immediately sends a text of his own to John:

_Up for an afternoon of crime solving? Lestrade wants me to help him with a new case. SH_

He doesn't have to wait long for John's response:

_Sure, send me the address, and I'll meet you there._  

 

 

The crime scene is in an alley, behind a Chinese grocery store. Sherlock arrives, followed shortly by John, to find a man face down on the middle of the pavement, his hands above his head, as if he were in the middle of surrendering before being killed. 

Sherlock is already cataloguing every detail of the scene when he says to Lestrade, “Tell me everything you know.”  
  
“Not much at the moment. This happened a couple hours ago. Victim was shot in the back, bullet wound went straight through the heart. One of the shop’s employees heard the commotion and called the cops. No wallet or ID on the body.”  
  
“Which shop?”  
  
“That would be mine.”  
  
A man of Asian descent steps forward and extends his hand to Sherlock. 

“Will Chou, I own the grocery store.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t take the proffered hand. Instead, he asks sharply, “So you heard the crime being committed?”  
  
“No, I was at the front of the store. My employee, Vanya Petrov,” the owner gestures towards the man standing near the back door of the store, “heard everything, but I can answer any questions on his behalf.”

“Can’t Mr. Petrov speak for himself?”  
  
“I’m afraid he doesn’t speak much English.”  
  
Lestrade responds, helpfully, “We could get an interpreter.” 

But Sherlock shoots down the idea. “If he can’t understand English, then what good will that do? He heard them fighting. He didn’t witness anything.” 

In lieu of interrogation, Sherlock examines the man closely from a short distance away. 

The man in question appears to be in his sixties, mid to late, with hair that long ago turned grey and piercing blue eyes. He’s poor now but hasn’t always been that way—his manner of dress, way of carrying himself, all telegraph that clearly. 

But there’s more, much more to him. The shop owner said he didn’t speak much English, but that’s a lie, although likely a lie that Mr. Chou isn’t aware of. 

Sherlock starts talking quickly and softly to John as he examines the body, enough to obscure what he’s saying from someone whose English skills are limited, but Sherlock can tell by the man’s body language, the way he holds himself—the man could understand most if not everything that Sherlock’s saying.

_Curious, but no point in talking to him now, not in front of the others_

After doing his initial examinations of the body, and ordering Lestrade to pass on any new information, Sherlock and John start walking towards the main road to get a taxi back to Baker Street. 

Once they're out of earshot of everyone else, Sherlock asks, “What did you think of that man?”  
  
“The shopkeeper or the other bloke?”  
  
“The other one.”  
  
“You think he’s the murderer?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“But you think there’s something off about him?”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“Since when have you been interested in my opinion?”  
  
“I frequently ask for your insight.”  
  
“No, you frequently ask for me to embarrass myself by providing completely useless input.”  
  
“I care about your opinion now. What did you think of him?”  
  
“I don’t know. Something felt a bit off. It was almost—“ 

When John trails off, Sherlock prompts him. “Almost what?”  
  
“He seemed familiar.”  
  
“Curious.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I had the same sense.”  
  
“Is he one of your network?”  
  
“He’s not that familiar. Maybe someone I saw in passing. His features are familiar but I can’t place him beyond that.” 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

“Sometimes I don’t.” 

“You do when it matters.”  
  
“And you think this one matters?”  
  
“I can tell it’s already driving you crazy, so yeah, it matters.”  
  
“I suppose that’s true.”

 

 

Later that afternoon, alone in Baker Street once again, Sherlock is lying lengthwise on the couch, his feet propped up on the arms on one end, his head resting on a pillow on the other. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep. He’s thinking—about the crime scene they visited earlier that day, and about that other man—Vanya Petrov. Why does he seem so maddeningly familiar? Has he seen him before? Is there a connection he’s missing?   

His thoughts are interrupted by the ringing of a phone, which is particularly curious since his mobile is right on the table, completely silent. Maybe John left his phone behind? He instantly dismisses that thought—not John’s ring tone. 

He stands up and follows the sound, until he identifies its location: the pocket of his coat. He takes it out and examines it. 

_Flip phone. Old model, barely used. Unlisted phone number._  

With his interest piqued, he opens the phone, and says, “Hello?” 

“Are you alone?“

Instantly, he’s on high alert. He would recognize that voice anywhere, even though he’s never heard it sound so desperate. 

“Mary, what’s wrong?” 

“John, is Sherlock with you?”

“Mary, what’s going on? Where are you?” 

“John, please, listen to me. Whatever you do, don’t let Sherlock know what’s happening.” 

“But Mary this is—” 

Even louder this time, drowning out whatever else Sherlock might have said, “John, keep _Sherlock_ out of this.”  
  
And then he understands, it makes perfect sense—Mary, poor, clever Mary— 

“Of course, Sherlock won’t know anything about this, just please, tell me where you are, tell me what’s wrong.” 

“No, Stay with—” 

And then before she can say anything else, the phone is taken out of her hand and a man— _some kind of accent, Eastern European, bad connection, exact origin difficult to ascertain—_ takes over.

“Is this John Watson?”

_He needs to be John Watson now—both John and Mary’s lives depend on this, depend on him—_

“Where’s my wife? What have you done to her?”

“We’ll send you an address. You will have twenty minutes to meet us. If you’re not there—alone and unarmed—we will shoot her immediately. If you’re lucky and you show up alone, one of you will make it out alive.” 

And then the connection ends. 

There’s no time—think, he has to think—damn it, why did Mycroft have to be out of the country now of all times?

A few minutes later, there’s a text, with an address, and then a picture of Mary, alive, bruised—strapped in a chair—and around her chest, wires, a timer—a bomb—

He has to get to Mary, has to protect her—and John—he can’t know, has to stay away—he needs help, someone who can help— 

And before his brain can catch up with his body, he’s already down the stairs and out the door, pushing past pedestrians as he makes his way down Baker Street. He makes a sharp turns into a back alley where a group of junkies are huddled around a trash can. 

“Billy, you’re needed.” 

“Sure, Shezza, just let me wrap up this—” 

“ _Now_ , Wiggins.”

Unwilling to waste any time, Sherlock grabs Bill Wiggins by the shoulder and pulls him in the direction of Baker Street. 

While they’re walking back to the flat, Sherlock fires off a text to John: 

_Major breakthrough. Come at once. Baker Street. SH_

A moment later, a response: 

_On my way_  

Then he turns his attention back to Wiggins. Sherlock begins talking quietly and quickly as they approach 221b. 

“I need you to listen to me. You must do everything I say, exactly as I say it. John should be here very soon. Do not let him out of your sight. Offer him some tea—there are sedatives in the very back of the cabinet above the fridge. Give him enough to put him to sleep, then stay with him, and monitor his vitals. If he starts to wake up, get him back to sleep, and if he stops breathing, call emergency, and go with him.”

“What’s going on?”

“Not important.  But if you don’t hear from me or Mary within the next half hour, I need you to phone Lestrade and tell him that I’m in trouble and to bring the bomb squad. Give him this address.”

Sherlock hands Wiggins a small piece of paper with a hastily scrawled address, and adds, “Whatever you do, make sure John does not see this piece of paper.”

“How am I supposed to call if I don't have a phone?”

“Use John’s, or—here, take mine. I won’t be needing it.”

He shoves the phone into Wiggins's hand, then immediately heads towards the door. 

As he's leaving, he hears the other man call out to him— 

“Shezza, be careful.”  

Without stopping to acknowledge those words, Sherlock races out into the bright London street, pushing past pedestrians, jumping over obstacles, his thoughts a blur of— 

_Must get to Mary time is of the essence can’t stop have to keep moving keep going think_

Should he get help? Is it foolish to go in alone?  
  
John would say its foolish, but John also would have been the first one hurtling into danger to protect his wife.

John would do anything to save Mary, and Sherlock would do anything to save John, so that’s why he has to do this—alone. 

After taking a deep breath, he calls out, “TAXI!” 

He jumps into the first car that stops for him, tells the driver the address, and then he’s on his way.

As they’re driving off, he glances back at Baker Street—one more time—knowing that he may never see it again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! I promise to get the next chapter posted in the next day or two.


	3. The Countdown

Sherlock directs the taxi driver to let him off a block away from the destination. After paying the driver, he steps out onto the pavement, and makes his way to the abandoned warehouse, cataloguing every detail of his surroundings as he goes—

_Outskirts of London, half a mile from main road, no foot traffic, few cars, industrial, gravel path_

When he does reach the front door, no one is waiting outside, so without hesitation, he uses his fist to start banging on the door. Almost instantaneously, the door is flung open—it's dark inside, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust—but before he gets a good look at his captors, there are already men on either side of him, holding is arms tightly, their grips strong enough to leave bruises. Still, he doesn’t struggle. He’s here to rescue Mary, not save himself.

One of them asks, “Does anyone know you’re here?”  
  
“No, no one.”  
  
In Russian, the same man orders one of the others to guard the doors, then to the rest in English he says, “Search him.” 

Suddenly there are hands all over him, patting him down, reaching into his pockets, running over every inch of him, but after an exhaustive search, all they find is the mobile phone that they planted on him in the first place. 

After they’ve completed their examination, Sherlock says, “Now that you have me, you can let her go.”  
  
“That's not how this works.”  
  
“That’s the deal I came here to make.”  
  
“I guess you’re in for a bit of a surprise then.” 

The man behind him twists Sherlock’s arms together, and cuffs his wrists behind his back. 

“You have me, so please, let her go.”

"Why would I do that?"

He reminds himself,  _Be John._

"I'll give you whatever you want, but please, don't hurt her. She's my wife, and I love her."

“You love her, do you? That was a big mistake.”

Without any warning, Sherlock’s vision is blocked by a blindfold that is wrapped around his head. He’s then shoved forward, roughly, and obeying the unspoken command, he begins walking, held on either side by two men. 

As they drag him along he catalogues the path they take—

 _10 feet forward, left turn, 20 feet, right turn, 12 feet, right turn_  

And then he’s pushed through an open doorway—he almost trips over the threshold. 

 _Outside, pavement underfoot, sounds of traffic in the distance_

Without warning, his feet are pulled out from under him—he’s momentarily suspended, one man holding his legs, the other holding his shoulders—and then he’s dropped down onto a hard surface, his face shoved to the floor, and suddenly he hears a slam of metal against metal above his head, and he feels the walls close in on him. 

He starts to assess his surroundings, some kind of enclosure, or maybe— 

And then he hears it—the start of an engine, and now they’re in motion. He’s trapped in the boot of a car.

 _No no no no no—Lestrade won’t have this address, won’t have any idea where to find him_

He does his best to map out which roads they take, but the men are going quickly and in circles, probably to disorient him, and unfortunately, it's working. Of course, without any means of communication, what good would knowing the location even do? 

After twenty minutes of driving, the car comes to a halt. Quickly, he has to make a decision—does he fight now? He’s blindfolded and his hands are cuffed, but at least his legs are still free—and if not now, when? He can’t rely on Lestrade to find him anymore. 

 _Stupid—so stupid—he shouldn’t have come here alone_

He hears the footsteps come closer, the turn of the key in the lock, and then he feels the breeze of fresh air. 

 _Now, now’s the moment, time to fight back_

But before he has a chance to get his feet under him, he feels a hard object—metal pipe? Tire iron?—connect with the back of his head, and then the rest is darkness.

 

 

He has no way of knowing how long he’s been unconscious, but when he does open his eyes, it takes a moment for him to adjust to the dim light of the room. As he attempts to get his bearings, he hears, “Oh, Sherlock, what are you doing here?” 

He turns his head see Mary, strapped in a chair, with a bomb around her chest, exactly as she was in the picture they sent him. 

He struggles to get to his feet—not so easy to do with his hands still tied behind his back. Once he does manage to get himself upright, he walks over and kneels down in front of her. 

“I’m here to save you, Mary. Now, I need you to tell me everything you know about these people and—” 

“You were supposed to—your job was to keep John away, not come here so we can both get killed.” 

“John’s safe, don’t worry about him. Do you know why they’ve brought us here, Mary? What did they want with John?” 

“They wanted _me_ , Sherlock. This isn’t about John. This is about me, the person I was, the things I did. They want to kill me for revenge, and they want to kill my husband, too.”  
  
“But _why_ , Mary?” 

“You already know the answer to that. You know the kind of things I did before I became Mary Morstan.” 

Without responding to that last comment, Sherlock begins to examine the contraption around Mary, hoping against hope that there is some way—something that can be done. 

But unfortunately, these men were very thorough. The bomb is secured around Mary tightly, and in turn, she’s cuffed to the chair—a metal chair, not wood, harder to dismantle.  
  
He looks around the room trying to find anything, any means of escape, but the only point of entry is the steel door—no air ducts to climb through,, no windows. The door doesn't even have a handle on the interior side, and there’s nothing else in the room besides Sherlock, Mary, the chair, and the bomb.  

As he’s finishing his desperate examinations, Mary says, quietly, “Sherlock, I want you to know—you should know that I’m sorry.”  
  
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Mary.”  

“No, I do. I’m sorry for that night, with Magnussen. I thought that I was protecting John—but I never should have hurt you.” 

“None of that matters now. All that matters is getting you out of here.”

“They brought me here to kill me. To kill us both. There's no way out.”

“There has to be something we can do.” 

Mary shakes her head silently, and although she tilts her face down, Sherlock can make out a few tears falling down her cheeks.  
  
Seeing no other options, fearing that time is running out, he runs to the door, and starts slamming into it full force, hoping that maybe it will give—maybe if he causes enough noise, someone will open the door—maybe he can overtake them—although he doesn’t know how, hobbled as he is—but he can’t just stand here and wait for both of them to die.  
  
When his attempts to be a human battering ram yield no results—other than a very sore shoulder—he starts shouting, “Kill me instead. Let her go! You have to let her go!” 

“Sherlock, it won’t work.” 

He turns back towards her.  
  
She’s not crying anymore, as she says, quietly, “They’ve already left.” 

“How do you—” 

And then he looks down, at her chest, and sees it—the numbers that have suddenly lit up— 

The countdown has started. Sixty seconds.  
  
“This is what they came to do. They don’t need to be here when it happens.” 

“Someone will come looking for us—I gave orders to Wiggins—as long as we can find a way to turn this off—” 

He returns to her side, and searches again for any means to dismantle the bomb. His thoughts are frantic— 

 _There must be a way have to find a way turn this off bombs dismantling bombs how to dismantle a bomb how to turn off a bomb how to stop an explosion how to survive an explosion_

But he comes up empty. There's no off switch this time.

He looks down at Mary, and she looks back at him. He sees the timer, the glowing red numbers— 

12 

11 

10 

“Sherlock, please take care of John.” 

9 

8 

“No, Mary, no, there’s time, we still have—” 

7 

6 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” 

5 

Then, in one swift movement, she rocks back in the chair and uses both of her feet with as much force as she can manage to push Sherlock away from her— 

4 

And she twists in the opposite direction, folding in on herself—

3 

Sherlock lands on his back on the cement floor, starts to push himself up, his eyes are wild and terrified, as he shouts, “Mary—” 

2 

1 

And then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm, I'm really sorry for ending this chapter with another cliffhanger. I know they're terrible. I promise to get the next chapter posted within the next two days at the very latest. It will probably be even sooner than that.
> 
> (I won't always be able to keep such a fast posting schedule, but I wanted to get these first five or so chapters posted, since they're already completed.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you have a chance to leave a comment, I'd love to hear what you think of the story so far!


	4. Aftermath

Every fiber in Sherlock’s body hurts. His lungs feel frozen—he gasps for breath—his ears are ringing—he can only make out muffled, distant sounds—he tries to move, to open his eyes—but it’s as if his brain and his body are disconnected from each other—

And then he comes fully into consciousness, his eyes wide open. It’s too dark and bright all at the same time—he smells smoke, and burned flesh, the floor feels damp—there’s blood everywhere—

Where is he, what’s happened—is John—

And then it hits him—the phone call, the warehouse, the bomb, the countdown, and—

“Mary, Mary—“

His voice is hoarse, and he struggles to sit up, feels a searing pain in his side, a sharp pain that shoots up from his spine to his neck to his brain, and his lungs burn as he tries to breathe—

But he ignores it all, as he attempts to see through the dim light and haze of smoke—

And there, ten feet away, he sees blonde hair, and there’s no movement, she’s not moving, but his vision is blurred, he can’t see anything other than an outline, and the red staining the concrete floor.

He tries to call out louder, “Mary! Mary, please—“

His legs won’t obey him—he can’t stand up, and his hands are still cuffed together—but he tries to push himself forward—he has to get to her—he needs to help her—she needs his help—

And then the ringing in his ears is replaced by the sounds of sirens, many sirens, and then the bomb squad bursts through the door. Moments later the paramedics come behind them.

Suddenly there are hands on him, voices telling him not to move, lay back down, and he doesn’t understand why they’re looking at him, helping him, asking him questions—what’s your name, do you know where you are—when it’s Mary, Mary that needs them, and so he struggles as he tries to tell them, “Not me, Mary, help her—“

One of the paramedics says,“Sir, don’t move—“

Sherlock ignores him, continues to struggle anyway, but then he sees Lestrade, and Lestrade sees him, rushes over—

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I got a call—“

“Where’s John? Please tell me John’s not with you—”

“No, he’s back at the station.”

Lestrade calls someone over to cut the handcuffs off, as he says, “Don’t move, okay, we’re going to get you out of here—“

“No, help Mary—”

“We need to get you to the hospital—“

“Not until—Mary—please—”

“Christ, Sherlock, Mary’s—

For the first time, Sherlock focuses on Lestrade’s face, and in that instant he knows the horrible, gut-wrenching truth before he even hears the words.

“She’s dead.”

He feels pain shooting through him as he turns his body, sharply, looking past Lestrade, at the shape on the ground, the paramedics standing around, no one touching her—so much blood—and Donovan, staring wordlessly—

And a moment later, Sherlock loses his tenuous grip on consciousness, and sinks back into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the good news is that I’m not planning on killing off anyone else. The bad news is that, well, Mary’s dead. Also, lots of angst ahead. Oh, and this is the last cliffhanger, at least for the foreseeable future. I should get the next chapter posted by tomorrow. 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far if you have a moment to leave a review! Thanks for reading! 
> 
> P.S. I know that if a bomb exploded while it was strapped to your chest that the results would be more gruesome than what I described here, but frankly, I didn’t want to subject anyone to any really gory details. I feel like I've done enough damage already.


	5. Bedside Visitors

Sherlock comes into consciousness again, but it’s a struggle, like swimming to the surface from one hundred feet below, and all he knows at first is pain. Before he becomes aware of anything else, he can feel the sharp sensations coursing through him—his spine, his abdomen, wrist, chest, head—god, how his head hurts. 

_How did he get here?_  

Before he opens his eyes, he tries to make sense of his surroundings. He hears beeping in the background, papers moving, noises too dull to differentiate. 

_Focus_

He’s in bed, but not his bed. Certainly not Baker Street. Scratchy sheets, artificial smell of plastic and bleach, needles in his arms— 

_Hospital, of course_

On better days, he would have figured that out in a millisecond. 

Is he alone? He focuses for a moment more, detects the subtle breathing patterns of another person—yes, he would know that breathing anywhere.

He considers concealing his return to consciousness, but his brother has probably already noticed. Besides, he feels the boredom and the tension eating away at him.  
  
And so, finally, he opens his eyes.  
  
He is, in fact, in a hospital, and in a chair on the other side of his room, his brother is sitting and staring at some kind of bureaucratic paperwork.  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth without any thought as to what he’s about to say, and the first word that leaves his mouth is, “John?” 

Mycroft’s head whips up as he looks in his brother’s direction. 

“Sherlock, I’ve been assured by your doctors that you did not undergo severe brain damage nor did you suffer any visual impairment as a result of this recent incident, so surely you can tell the difference between me and your former flat mate.” 

And just like that, the memories return full force and knock the breath out of him. 

_Mary. The bomb._

_Dead._  

Sherlock takes another moment to gather his thoughts, tries to maintain some semblance of composure.

He clears his throat before asking more clearly— 

“Where’s John?” 

“Not here.”  
  
“Obviously. As you said, Mycroft, I am neither blind nor brain damaged. Where is he?” 

“How would I know?” 

“You know everything. How is he?”  
  
“Ah, yes, we’ve had many heart-to-heart chats while you’ve been unconscious. He’s really poured his heart and soul—“ 

“For god’s sake Mycroft, I’m not in the mood—can’t you—” 

Sherlock halts in his speech as pain lances through his back. As much as he would have liked to hide his discomfort from his brother, he can’t help but grimace. However, Sherlock’s suffering elicits anger not sympathy from Mycroft. 

“Would you like to know what I’m not in the mood for, brother dear? Trying to explain to Mummy why her foolish son nearly got himself killed again. Did you think about _our_ mother— _our_ parents—before rushing off into danger like that?” 

Sherlock can’t even begin to formulate an answer to Mycroft’s scolding, so instead, he asks, “How did you get back from China so quickly?”

“I came as soon as I got word, but more to the point, you've been unconscious for the last six days.”

“I guess I’ve caught up on all my sleep for the next year, in that case.”

“You would do well not to be so flippant about matters pertaining to your health. Would you care to know the details of the injuries you sustained as a result of your latest foolish endeavor?”

“Not particularly.”  
  
“Too bad.” 

Mycroft walks over and grabs Sherlock’s chart, although he proceeds to recite it’s contents without looking down at the page. 

“Grade III concussion, four broken ribs, massive internal bleeding, second degree burns, ruptured spleen, severe trauma to cervical vertebrae, fractured clavicle, and a fractured left ulnar radius.”  
  
“Is that all?”

“You nearly died, Sherlock! You were in surgery for hours to repair the damage that the explosives wrought on your body. It could have been far worse than it was, and even still, you have a long road ahead of you.” 

“What do you want me to say, Mycroft?”  
  
“I want you to _think_ before running into danger like this again.”  
  
“I did think. I didn’t have any other choice.”  
  
“We always have choices, Sherlock.”  
  
“In that case, I choose for you to leave.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.” 

“It’s what _I_ mean. I don’t need any more of your lectures, not now.” 

Mycroft’s tone softens, as he says, “I just want you to keep yourself safe. Please, promise me you won’t do something like this again.”  
  
“You know I can’t.”  
  
“Well, at least promise me that you won’t go running off when you’re supposed to be convalescing.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do. Now, leave.”  
  
“I’ll stop by again tomorrow.” 

Sherlock is about to fire back with, _Don’t bother_ , but Mycroft is gone before he has a chance to get the words out. 

Of course, now that Mycroft has left, he’s stuck in a room with no stimulation, no distractions, nothing except the machines, and the pain, and the images that keep coming to him—Mary, the bomb, the numbers— 

Willing to do anything for a distraction, he turns on the TV and does his best to immerse himself in the vapid nonsense that floods his senses. 

For once, when he slips off into sleep a few minutes later, he doesn’t even fight it.

 

  

When he comes to again, Mycroft is mercifully absent, and in his place is Lestrade. 

“Here to arrest me?”  
  
Lestrade hadn’t noticed Sherlock’s return to consciousness, so he’s startled by the sound of Sherlock’s voice, although he comes back to himself quickly. 

“Glad to see you back among the living. Gave us a real scare.”  
  
“Are you here for a reason, Gavin?”

Lestrade doesn’t even bother correcting him.

“Isn’t wanting to see you conscious and in one piece reason enough?”  
  
“Not really, no. Here to film me? They aren’t giving me nearly enough drugs to make that interesting for either of us, although if you’re willing to have a chat with the nurses and get them to up the dose a bit, I could give you enough footage for all of Scotland Yard to get a good laugh at my expense.” 

Lestrade doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he says,  “You look like hell.”  
  
“Thanks. This visit has been really uplifiting. You can leave now.”  
  
Lestrade waves him off.

“You nearly died, and you’ve been through a bloody awful mess. You can say whatever you want to me. I’ve heard worse from you anyway, with less reason.”  
  
They’re both quiet for a few minutes before Sherlock asks, “Have you spoken to John?”  
  
For some reason, that question makes Lestrade shift uncomfortably in his chair. “Yeah, a bit.”  
  
“How is he?”  
  
“He’s taking it pretty hard. I haven’t seen him like this since—” 

Lestrade stops before completing his statement, but Sherlock fills in the gap.

“Since I jumped off a building?”  
  
“Yeah.” Lestrade pauses before asking, in an unusually diffident tone, “Has John been by to see you?”  
  
“Not as far as I’m aware.”  
  
“I’m sure he’ll stop by at some point.”  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“You’re not sure. It’s obvious from your expression and your tone. What’s going on? Is John okay?”

“Of course he’s not blood okay! His wife just died.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Lestrade’s expression instantly turns to regret. His discomfort is all the more palpable when Sherlock responds with—

“I know, I was there.” 

For a minute it looks like Lestrade is going to reach out to Sherlock, but then he thinks better of it and withdraws. 

Instead he says, in a low voice, “Sherlock I’m sure—what you went through, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I can’t imagine what that must have been like. Now, I know you’ll never take me up on this, but I’m available to talk, anytime, or go have a beer, once you’re out of here. Whatever you need, just say the word.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond at all to Lestrade’s heartfelt offer. Instead, he asks, “When’s the funeral?”  
  
“The funeral?”  
  
“Mary’s funeral. When is it?”  
  
“Two days ago.”  
  
“It already happened?”  
  
“Yeah, but I mean—you couldn’t have come. You weren’t even awake yet.”  
  
“I should call John.”  
  
“I think it’s better if you wait for him to come see you.”  
  
“Out with it, Lestrade! What is going on?”  
  
“Look, Sherlock, I’ve gotta head out, but you rest up and listen to the doctors. Get better so you can come back and heckle me in the field. I’m sure John will stop by soon.”  
  
Lestrade gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile, before exiting the room.

As soon as he’s alone, Sherlock takes the cup of ice beside his bed and hurls it at the door. 

Then, he turns the telly back on and allows himself to slip back into sleep.

 

  
 

When he opens his eyes again, there’s no Lestrade or Mycroft. 

Instead, John is sitting in that same chair, hunched over, with his head buried in his hands. He looks like he hasn’t eaten, showered, or slept in days. 

He's clearly awake, and his breathing is ragged, but he’s not crying.

Sherlock pauses, unsure of what to say. Emotions hit him like tidal waves.

Unbidden, images flash into his brain—of Mary—the sounds, that phone call— _Be John, he has to be John_ —the terror of seeing her there, a bomb strapped to her chest—the helplessness—knowing it was too late, but desperately trying anyway—wanting to do anything, anything to save her— 

And then those final moments, the ticking of the bomb—it haunts him every time he closes his eyes— 

5

4

3

2

1 

And then the world explodes. 

Involuntarily, his entire body tenses, sending a sharp jolt through his side, and he lets out a gasp of pain before he can stop the sound from escaping. 

That noise is enough to get John’s attention. 

His head jerks up, he looks straight at Sherlock—and Sherlock can see clearly now, even from across the room, the bloodshot eyes, the redness from hours of crying, the lines of tension around John’s face—and the anger, so palpable that Sherlock wants to shrink away from it. 

All John says at first is, “You’re awake.”  
  
Normally, Sherlock might have made a snide comment in response like— 

_Brilliant deduction_

But now all he does is nod his head, gingerly. 

He waits for John to saying something more, but when all he gets is stony silence, Sherlock begins to fumble, “John, I’m—I’m so sorry—” 

“No, Sherlock—not now. Nothing, nothing, you can do or say will bring her back. She’s—Mary’s—” 

John stands up out of the chair abruptly and turns so his back is facing Sherlock, as he fights to regain his composure.

Sherlock sits up more fully, ignores the pain, considers getting out of bed, feels a strong—and foreign—drive to comfort, to do something, to say something—anything—                                                            

But then a moment later, John turns back around, and says in a low voice, as he grips the end of the bed so tightly that his knuckles turn white— 

“One more case, Sherlock. You and I, we’re going to find out who did this to Mary. I’m going to put a bullet in their brains, and then—” 

John pauses, and Sherlock waits, with his breath caught in his throat.  
  
“I never want to see you again.”  
  
Those words cut through Sherlock like a knife, but before he can react, before he can say anything in response, John exits the room, slamming the door behind him.                                                                                

Alone, with only the beeping of the machines and the sound of his own breathing, Sherlock can feel the walls closing in on him, as his chest tightens—his breaths come short and fast—his thoughts are a jumble, moving too fast for him to make sense of anything—and at first he can’t move—he feels paralyzed, tries to focus, tries to get a grip— 

_Slow down_

But it doesn’t work, and so he attempts instead to focus on the pain, presses his hand against his side, and the shot of agony that lances through his body is enough to momentarily ground him. Before he loses control again, he reaches over, without even bothering to look, fumbles with his wire and finds the tap, then presses the button until it won’t go up any more. 

A moment later, he feels the relief coursing through his veins, exhaustion overwhelms him, and he lets himself be carried by the drugs back into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will probably take me a bit longer to get the next chapter posted, but I should be able to get it up within the next week. It's mostly done, but there are still some things I need to iron out. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you like how the story is going so far. (Well, "like" might not be the best word. I haven't been treating these guys very well in these early chapters.) I'd love to hear any feedback you have, positive, negative, whatever. I'm always looking to improve my writing. Thanks!
> 
> P.S. I probably won't get into explaining this in the story itself, so in case anyone was wondering how Lestrade found Sherlock: Wiggins contacted Lestrade as directed, and part of the message he was supposed to deliver was about sending the bomb squad (since Sherlock saw Mary with the bomb strapped around her chest). Wiggins also had the original address. Of course, that isn't where Sherlock ended up, but the second location was still broadly in that general area so that was the area they targeted when they started searching for Sherlock. When the bomb exploded, it made enough noise to draw attention to the new location, Lestrade/bomb squad/paramedics went there, and that's how they found Sherlock. The people who captured Mary abandoned both locations as soon as they locked Sherlock in there with Mary, because they knew that the bomb exploding might lead to someone coming to investigate/calling the police/etc. Of course, they could have just shot them both in the head and skipped the whole bomb thing, but they weren't just looking to kill Mary and her husband. They wanted revenge, gruesome, horrible revenge. (I'm sorry.)


	6. On the Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter took longer to get out than I initially planned. At least it's on the longer side, and it's got some John/Sherlock time, although not nearly as much as we'll have in a couple chapters. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock is sitting in bed, arms folded across his chest, and staring into space when Mycroft opens the door without knocking. 

“Hello, brother dear.”  
  
“Go away, brother dear.”  
  
Instead of obeying Sherlock’s request, Mycroft settles into the chair across the room, and asks, “Has John been by to see you?”  
  
“Don’t bother asking questions you already know the answer to.”  
  
“How did it go?”  
  
“You know that too.”  
  
“Yes, well, if you’d like, I can prevent him from visiting again. I’ll just have a little chat with the—” 

“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“John can visit if he wishes.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s wise, Sherlock, especially when you are in the midst of your convalescence.”  
  
“I’m not an invalid, Mycroft, and I’m not a child.”  
  
“Of course you’re not. You are, however, very unwell, and you’ve recently been through quite the ordeal—”  
  
“I’ll leave.”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“If you prevent John from coming here, I’ll leave.”  
  
“You wouldn’t.”  
  
“I would.”  
  
“You can’t.” 

“Oh, I believe we both know that I can.”  
  
“Fine, play the martyr if that’s what you prefer.”  
  
“John needs me.”  
  
“He hates you!”

Mycroft regrets those words the minute they leave his mouth. 

“That’s not what I meant, Sherlock. John has just experienced a tragic loss, and he’s not thinking rationally.”  
  
“Leave.”  
  
“Sherlock—”  
  
“Leave now!” 

For a moment Mycroft considers standing his ground but then thinks better of it. 

 “I’ll be by to check on you later.”  
  
“Don’t bother.”  
  
Mycroft exits the room without acknowledging his brother’s parting shot. 

 

 

 

The next day, Sherlock is awake, sitting up in bed, with a laptop in front of him. Frantic typing is interspersed with his eyes quickly scanning the text on the screen. He’s so caught up in his task that he almost doesn’t notice when the door to his room opens and John Watson walks in. 

“Hey.”  
  
“John, did you get the—” 

“Yeah, thanks.”  
  
“I’m sorry I missed the funeral.”  
  
“It’s fine. You were unconscious. Pretty good excuse.”  
  
“I wish I could have been there.”  
  
“Sherlock, you don’t have to do this.”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“This! Act like you care.”  
  
“I do—” 

“I don’t!” 

John’s voice is low and dangerous, his fists are balled up at his sides, as he says, ”I don’t care how you feel. I don’t care about your apologies. My wife is dead. The woman I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with—she’s dead. All I want to know is, who did this, and why they used _he_ r to get to _you.”_  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“You’re going to have to do better than that.”  
  
“I don’t know, John. I wish I did.”  
  
“You better bloody figure it out then!”  
  
“How? As you can see, I’m rather tied up at the moment.”  
  
Sherlock gestures to the all the medical equipment that tethers him to the bed. 

“Just tell me what to do, who to talk to, and I’ll do it.” 

“Let me talk to Mycroft. Maybe he can get them to let me—” 

John shakes his head emphatically, “No, don’t. Not for me. I don’t need you getting yourself killed.” 

Something in Sherlock snaps, as he fires back, “Why not? That’s what you want, isn’t it? I can tell, that’s what you’ve been thinking this whole time. ‘If only Sherlock had stayed dead, if only he never came back, then none of this would have happened.’”  
  
“Well, it’s the bloody truth, isn’t it?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He takes a deep breath, which he regrets when he feels the sharp ache in his side. 

He didn’t think his discomfort showed on his face, but John must have noticed something, because he asks, “How are you feeling?”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
John walks over to the end of Sherlock’s bed, reaches for the chart, and asks, “Do you mind if I take a look?”  
  
“Be my guest.”  
  
As John flips through the chart, Sherlock opens the laptop again, and feigns interest in its contents, although what he’s really doing is watching John. Of course, the minute John looks up again, Sherlock hastily redirects his attention to the screen.

John starts to say, “I didn’t realize—” 

“What?”  
  
“How bad it was.”  
  
“Ah, you mean my injuries? Well, being a few feet from an explosion tends to leave you a bit banged up.”  
  
“Are you listening to your doctors?”  
  
“I’m a model patient.”  
  
John snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure. They’re keeping you around just because you’re such a joy to work with.”

Sherlock smirks in response. 

However, a moment later, a shadow passes over John’s face, as he says, “For once, in your whole life, Sherlock, why couldn’t you have asked for help, rather than running off on your own? If you had gone to the police or to me, maybe—” 

“Is that why you can barely stand to be in the same room with me?” 

“No—yes—it’s that, and everything else.”  
  
“What else?”  
  
“Some days, I think that you were one of the best things that ever happened to me, and other times I think maybe you were the worst.”  
  
The words sting, but Sherlock tries not to let the hurt show in his expression. 

“I knew the kind of person you were when we first met—thought I did, at least. But then there were those times where I saw the other side, where I thought you really cared. And after you died—”  
  
Sherlock winces at that memory. 

“I was devastated, and it was even worse to hear everyone say all those terrible things—that you were a fake, a liar. I knew they weren’t true, couldn’t be true—I defended you to everyone that would listen. But still, every day I had to struggle with what you did. I thought nothing could be worse than getting shot and almost dying, until I had to watch you die.”  
  
“But I didn’t die.”  
  
“And that’s the worst of it! Every day I prayed for you not to be dead, and then after two long years of grieving, you came back, and you expected me to just forgive you, to act like that wasn’t the cruelest thing imaginable to do to your best friend.

Sherlock starts to interrupt, “John, I—” 

“And then, the stupidest part of it all is that I did forgive you. Or at least I thought I did. But now, after losing Mary, because of you—” 

John trails off, and Sherlock knows that he should say something—to make John understand the truth, what actually happened, but he just can’t find the words. Besides, maybe it’s easier for John to blame Sherlock. Maybe for now it’s better if he doesn’t know how these events came to pass.  
  
Eventually, John speaks again, although his voice is thick and hoarse, as if on the verge of tears. “Just tell me one thing Sherlock.”

John takes a deep breath, and asks, “How come she ended up dead, and you ended up here?”  
  
“I don’t think—” 

“If you can’t tell me who did it, at least tell me this.”  
  
Sherlock looks down, and tries to find the words, tries to detach himself from the flood of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him, tries to ignore the images that come to mind. 

 _Be strong. For John, be strong._  
  
“The bomb—they tied it to her. My hands were cuffed. I couldn’t get them free, but she was the one strapped to the chair.” 

“And?”  
  
“I tried—I couldn’t find a way to dismantle it, but I tried up until the very last second. But then, right before it went off—she pushed me away.” 

When he finishes, Sherlock looks, but John is now turned so that Sherlock can only see his profile, and he has one hand pressed up against his eyes. 

After another minute, John seems to regain his composure, although all he says is, “Let me know as soon as you have some kind of lead.” 

“Of course.”

And then John leaves. 

As soon as John is gone, Sherlock reaches under the covers, pulls out his mobile phone, and quickly fires off a text: 

_Billy, find any members of the homeless network that speak Russian, and bring them to me. St Bart’s, room 451. SH_

Then, he sends another text, this time to his brother: 

 _Put someone on guard duty for John Watson. Do it, or I’m ditching the hospital and going underground. I’ll expect reports. SH_  

A minute later he gets a response: 

 _Consider it done. Furthermore, the next time you plan on using my login credentials to access top level security files kindly notify me in advance. MH_

Sherlock doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he reaches over to turn up the tap on the morphine, only to realize he’s already maxed out his dosage.

He considers paging the nurse, but they already refused the last time he requested an increase.

But he needs it, needs the relief, now more than ever. He can feel the tension in every muscle, the rush of adrenaline, as he gets flashes of those events—

_The bomb, Mary, trying to find a way to turn it off, throwing himself against the door, the sound of the ticking clock_

And then afterward—

_Waking up, the smell of burnt flesh, the blood, the desperation, the fear_

He fights to maintain his composure, but it's too much, he feels like he can't breathe, like he might suffocate under the weight of all these emotions. 

Finally, he gives in, as he reaches for his phone, picks it up, sets it down again, counts to ten, then after a few more moments of tortured deliberation, fires off another text to Wiggins:  
  
 _Bring supplies. Be discreet. Shower first._

He chooses not to sign that one. Instead, he turns his attention back to the computer screen which reads: 

 **Complete file on Amanda Grace Riley-Allen (A.G.R.A)**  
  
 **Country of origin:** USA

**Known aliases:**

Amanda Williams

Jennifer Lovedale

Anastasia Obolensky

Mary Morstan

Mary Watson (last known) 

When Sherlock reaches the last name on the list, he freezes, as an image flashes in his mind of Mary in her final moments— 

 _As she pushed him away, her final words—I’m sorry—and the look on her face—the desperate fear—the impact of the ground—knowing it was too late—_  

Without thinking, he shoves the laptop towards the end of the bed, swings his legs to the side, tries to stand up on his own weight— 

And immediately falls to the floor. 

The commotion is enough to cause several orderlies to come running in, and the combination of the shock, pain, and embarrassment, makes him wish he had hit is head hard enough to pass out again. 

“Mr. Holmes, are you all right?”  
  
“Just wanted to stretch my legs a little bit.”  
  
The nurse stares at him sternly. 

Wanting the whole scene to be over, he tries to shove himself back to his feet, realizes he doesn’t have enough strength to do even that, and finally gives up, waiting silently while two attendants manhandle him back into bed. 

Once he’s settled again, the nurse says, snidely, “Next time you want to take a field trip, use the call button.” 

And then everyone leaves.

He considers returning to his work, but ultimately, puts the laptop away, and turns on his side, ignoring the discomfort that the position causes. He curls in on himself and closes his eyes. 

Sleep won’t come—not now anyway—so instead he let himself wander deep into his mind palace where he can pace the halls and try to get lost in the maze of his thoughts, waiting for the relief that will come as soon as Wiggins arrives.  
 

~~ _  
_~~

 

Mary’s there, strapped to her chair, a timer on her chest, the numbers going by so quickly that they’re impossible to read—out of time—he’s running out of time—he has to help her—but he can’t move—his feet won’t obey him—he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—and he can hear Mary shouting 

 _Sherlock help me save me you have to do something please why aren’t you doing something_  

And he tries to move, tries to respond, but he can’t—he looks around the room for a way to escape—there must be some way—but then when he looks back to the center of the room, Mary’s gone, and in her place— _John—_ how could this—not John—no no no no—John who isn’t saying anything, just staring at him wordlessly, accusingly—he has to help—but the numbers are still flying—he can’t read them, but he knows they’re getting closer—too late—any second—any second—and then he sees another face—not John anymore—a new face altogether—features that are familiar and foreign all at once— 

And then he jerks awake, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. 

Another nightmare. 

He tries to focus on his breathing, recites the periodic table of the elements, counts out the digits of pi from memory, anything to make the world stop spinning and erase the images from his mind. 

Eventually he gets his heart rate under control, but even still, he knows he won’t go back to sleep, so he grabs the large book from his bedside table, the one that Billy delivered to him earlier that afternoon.

(Proust, _In search of lost time_ ) 

He doesn’t turn on the light lest that invite unwanted attention, so it does everything by instinct, as he flips open the cover, revealing the hollowed out interior 

Hidden inside are several vials and one already filled syringe 

With shaky hands, he removes the IV line that’s in his left arm, takes advantage of the preexisting port, and plunges the drugs into the waiting vein. 

Then, after reattaching the original IV, he waits for the relief that he knows is imminent. 

Almost instantly he feels the tension bleed out of his body, and with slightly steadier hands, he returns the contents to their original place, closes the book once more, and returns it to the bedside table. 

With that first task complete, he takes the laptop from the chair on the other side of his bed, opens it up, and returns to the file that he prays will have the information he needs to solve this one last case.

  

 

 

Many hours later, as the sun finally begins to rise, he sets the laptop aside, leans back against the pillows, and tries to think. 

There are so many questions, so many questions that need to be answered—

The phone, which had been slipped into _his_ pocket. When had this happened? How had it happened without him being aware? 

And why now? If these men were after Mary as they clearly appeared to be—how had they found her after all this time? And what made them believe that he was John? 

With those questions circulating in his head, he lets himself slip deep into his mind palace once more. 

When he finally emerges—one, maybe two or three hours later—it hits him. 

There is one man, the one man who could have the key to all of this.  

Sherlock knows, now, who he has to talk to next, but first he has to find a way to get out of this bloody hospital bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still a little rough around the edges, but I decided to just go ahead and get it posted so I can focus on moving forward with the story. Chapters 7 and 8 are basically done, so I hope to get them posted very soon, and Chapter 9 is close to being completed as well. Stay tuned, and thanks for reading!


	7. Vanya Petrov

 When, John arrives at the hospital, three days after his last visit, Sherlock can tell that he hasn’t been sleeping, although John seems to be managing once again to keep up with basic hygiene. 

By way of greeting, Sherlock says, “I hear the cafeteria food is passable here.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You haven’t been eating.”  
  
John doesn’t even bother denying it.  
  
“I haven’t been hungry.”  
  
“Still—”  
  
“Sherlock, you’re the last person I need lecturing me on my health.” 

Sherlock does his best to shrug nonchalantly. “I suppose you’re here looking for leads.”

“It’s not like I’m here to play a round of Cluedo.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“I don’t have much to go on, but I have a few people for you to talk to.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“I’ve written down names, phone numbers, and addresses. Information courtesy of Mycroft.”

John quickly looks over the paper Sherlock hands to him. “Who are these people?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “People with connections to the seedy underbelly of London.”  
  
“And this will help us how?”

“The men who were responsible for what happened were foreign—Slavic as far as I could tell—but I believe the explosives—” Sherlock does his best not to choke on the word, “They were purchased locally.”  
  
“Got a good look did you?”

“I did.”

“No off switch this time?”  
  
“John, please believe me when I say I did everything I could—”

 John holds up his hand to stop Sherlock, and says in a voice that is more tired than angry, “I don’t want to hear it. I just need to focus on finding these men. I can’t rest until we’ve found them.”

Sherlock nods in understanding. “The names I’m giving you—these are the people who might know how these explosives were purchased and by whom. For the moment, this is the best I can do.”

“Seems like a reasonable place to start.”  
  
“I thought so.”  
  
“I guess I’ll just be off then.”  
  
“Bring Lestrade with you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because these are criminals, John. Besides, I’m sure there’s something illegal to arrest them for. Bring your gun as well.” 

“Yeah, okay. Is that it?”   
  
“For now, yes. Report back to me once you’ve talked to them.”  
  
John nods before turning to leave. As he opens the door, he nearly collides with Bill Wiggins, who is just making his way into the room as John is exiting.  
  
John shoves past without a word.  
  
“Nice timing, Billy.”  
  
“Sorry Shezza, but you told me to come right away.”  
  
“So I did. Now, let’s do this quickly. The nurses will be changing over soon—there’s a new person on staff. Less likely to notice that you’re here in my place. Go and change into that hospital gown.” 

Sherlock gestures to the neatly folded pile of clothes on the chair farthest away from his bed.  
  
“I’m going to page the nurse, tell her I need to rest, and request that no one disturbs me for the next several hours.” 

“Why—” 

“Don’t ask questions, Billy. Just put on the gown, and don’t come out until I’ve told you to.” 

Once Sherlock notifies the nurse and orders Wiggins back out from the loo where he was changing, he gingerly gets out of bed. 

Although Sherlock feels a bit unsteady, he manages to stand up on his own two feet without immediately falling down.

_So far so good._

To Wiggins, he says, “Get in.”  
  
Wiggins does as he’s told, and Sherlock helps him reattach the blood pressure cuff, pulse oximeter, and the rest of the machinery. 

“I need you to pretend to be asleep, covers over your head. Don’t talk to anyone. Oh, and I’m borrowing this jacket. I shouldn’t be too long.” 

Sherlock already slipped on a pair of trousers and a shirt before Billy’s arrival, and now he puts on Wiggin’s jacket, pulling up the hood so it conceals most of his face. 

With everything in place, and after one last glance to make sure Wiggins is appropriately concealed, he leaves the room, trying to walk as steadily and confidently as possible through the halls. 

 

  

It’s not that Sherlock had given John false leads, but he certainly hadn’t given him the best ones. He has to be careful, can’t let John get too close until he has more information. He needs to be sure, has to know what they’re dealing with, before he lets John in. That’s why he has no other choice but to do this alone. 

It’s just after nightfall, and he finds himself outside the Chinese grocery store, the same market that John and Sherlock had arrived at on the day that Mary was kidnapped. 

His breath comes fast and shallow, his ribs ache, and his muscles are sore from disuse, but fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait for long.   
  
A short time after Sherlock’s arrival, Vanya Petrov steps out of the door leading to the back alley. He’s in the middle of taking out his keys to lock the door when Sherlock steps out of the shadows and says, “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by for a little chat.”  
  
The man starts to turn around while reaching his hand into his coat. 

Sherlock holds up a gun and says, “Looking for this?” 

Vanya pauses mid-motion and asks, in a quiet but heavy voice, “How did you get that?” 

“I was right then. Perfect English. But not your first language.”

Vanya stares at him wordlessly, the lines of tension clear on his face. Sherlock notices a slight tremor in his hands as they rest at his side—a simple response of the sympathetic nervous system? 

Storing away the information for later examination, Sherlock turns back to Vanya and says, “To answer your question, technically, _I_ didn’t take your gun. I had someone else take care of that for me. I had them replace it of course, which is why you didn’t notice the theft. Naturally, the one you have isn’t loaded.”  
  
“You plan to kill me, then? You wouldn’t be the first to try.”  
  
“So I gather. But no, I have no such intentions.”  
  
Sherlock then deftly takes the bullets out of the gun he’s holding, and hands it back, unloaded, to the other man, before tossing the unused bullets into the nearby trash bins. 

“I would say we’re on much more even ground, now.”  
  
“What do you want from me?”

 “We have a lot to discuss, Mr. Petrov—or should I say, Mr. Allen.”  
  
The man freezes.  
  
“Of course, that’s not your original name is it? But it was the name you took when you moved to America, and it’s the name you gave to your daughter.”

Sherlock’s words should have increased the man’s anxiety, but instead, Vanya seems to relax at Sherlock’s revelation. 

“You live up to your reputation, Mr. Holmes. How did you know?” 

“As soon as I saw you at the crime scene, I knew there was something. I recognized your features, but I couldn’t quite place them. I can see it clearly now, though. You have her eyes and her bone structure. Or maybe it would be more appropriate to say she had yours.”  
  
“So that was it? You knew just by looking at me?”  
  
“I have some friends in _very_ high places. My suspicion was easy enough to verify.” 

“But what do you want with me?”  
  
“Answers.”

“If you were able to trace her back to me, I don’t see what I could possibly help you with.” 

“You’re too modest, Mr. Allen. I believe you have quite a lot of information to share.” 

“Even if that was true, why would I risk my life sharing it with you?” 

“Do you really have no interest in bringing to justice the men who killed your daughter in cold blood? You followed her all the way back to London, so it’s hard to believe that you have such little regard for her. Unless, of course, you were involved—” 

Instantly Vanya Petrov’s face tenses, and his voice spikes, as he says, “How dare you—I would have given my life to protect Amanda. I did everything I could to keep her safe.”  
  
“I know. But it wasn’t enough, was it?” 

Where a moment ago he looked ready to fight, now Vanya’s entire body deflates. “No, in the end, nothing was.” 

“And that’s why I need you to help me find the men who did this to her.” 

 “What do you want to know?”                        

“Your working here—It’s not a coincidence, is it?” 

“This is the kind of meeting place they favor. A Chinese grocery store—what better place for a group of Russian criminals to hide out?” 

“You know a lot about these men.”  
  
It isn’t a question, and Vanya doesn’t bother denying it. 

“I worked with them, at one time.” 

“You know, it’s not usually so easy to escape—”

Sherlock pauses, as the realization hits him. 

“Ah, yes. You gave them up, and got yourself shipped off to America.”  
  
Vanya nods, before elaborating, “It was during the Cold War. Things back home were bad. I had to get out. They offered me a deal, and I took it. This was before I met Maria—Amanda’s mother.”  
  
“You met her in the States?”  
  
“I’d only been there for a few years, and I never intended to get involved with anyone, but as soon as I saw her—She was beautiful and so full of life. A strong, confident women. Just like Amanda.”  
  
“It’s in the records that she was killed, but how exactly did it happen?”  
  
“They found us, somehow, I don’t know how they did it—and she was caught in the crossfires. She didn’t even know—had no idea what I’d done.” 

Vanya lets out a deep sigh. 

“But Amanda found out, when she came home and found Maria. After that happened, I knew I couldn't keep it hidden from her any longer. There are still many things she didn't know, but I told her enough. ”  
  
He turns away, fights to maintain his composure, before continuing. 

“I don’t think Amanda ever forgave me for that—for her mother’s death, for the lies I’d told my family. She was 16 when it happened, and she left home not long after. She got in touch occasionally, but she never told me where she was, or what she was doing. Until—“

He pauses again, but this time he turns back around to face Sherlock.

“It was almost a decade later when she called and asked me to meet her. That was when she told me about her work with the CIA, how she had tracked down the men who killed her mother. She went after them, and when her superiors found out, she was forced out of the service.”  
  
“But that wasn’t why she contacted you.”  
  
“No—she told me that she was in trouble. She didn’t tell me details, but I knew, I knew what she did when she found them, because I would have done the same.”  
  
“You approved of her actions?”

Vanya shook his head. “They deserved it for what they did to Maria, but I never would have wanted Amanda to do it herself. I knew what these men were capable of, and now, she they were after her. She had received death threats, had suspicions that they had surveillance set up around her apartment. She was scared and in over her head, although she was too proud to admit it.”  
  
“So you helped her disappear.”  
  
“There was no other way. I put her in touch with people who could help her, but I never asked—and she never told me—her new identity. It was better that way. If they ever got to me—” 

“Do you really think you would have revealed your daughter’s secret?”  
  
“I would have given my life to protect her, but these men—you should never underestimate what they can do.”

“So that was it? You just let her disappear?” 

“That was many years ago now, and I never heard from her again. I didn’t expect to either. It was better that way. I hoped with all my heart that she would be safe.” 

“But she wasn’t. You knew, didn’t you, that they were after her still? How?”  
  
“I maintained some connections to our old country and our old life. Those people—I could never trust them completely, but there was one person who had some loyalty left to me. An old debt that he needed to repay, so to speak.” 

“What did he tell you?” 

“There were rumors—just hearsay—that she had been traced back to London. It wasn’t enough to be of interest to almost anyone.”  
  
“But someone was interested?” 

“There is a man—he goes by the name Stas. He’s the brother of one of the men Amanda killed. I knew him, although we had very little direct contact. He was still a boy when I left the country. But I could see even then what he would become.”   
  
“Tell me about him.”

“He grew into a big brute of a man, more strength and anger than intelligence, but very dangerous.”

“But why now?”  
  
“He had been in prison—for what, I don’t know—when Amanda killed his brother, and he only recently got out. According to my source, he never stopped wanting revenge. It was a forgone conclusion, that as soon as he was free, he would come looking for her.”

“So you came here as well?” 

“Yes.” 

Vanya hesitates before adding, “That’s really all I have to tell you.”  
  
“No, no it’s not.”

Vanya stares back wordlessly, so Sherlock presses further, “The day she was captured, you did overhear the murder that happened outside the store, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yes.” 

“By the time I arrived here, they must have already captured her.” 

“They had.” 

Vanya uneasiness grows as the conversation continues, although Sherlock is careful not to acknowledge it, as he says— 

“One of things that puzzled me most from the beginning: These men had managed to track down Mary, decided to go after her husband as well, and yet, they incorrectly identified me as John. It’s curious, isn’t it?” 

“Not really. As I said, Stas was never very smart, even before wasting away in prison for fifteen years.”  
  
“But you are a smart man, Mr. Allen, so don’t try to play dumb.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re implying, Mr. Holmes.”

“Once they found Mary, they would have needed something to go on to find her husband. It may well be as you said—this man is not a criminal mastermind. Impulsive, filled with rage, but he had something to go on. _Someone_ pushed him in the right direction.”  
  
“I really don’t—”

“I’m not upset. I’m grateful, in fact. I never would have wanted John to be involved in this affair.” 

“Mr. Holmes—”

“It was the photo, wasn’t it? The front page photo from the gala. That’s the proof you used to convince them that I was John Watson.”

For a moment, it looks like Vanya might run or remain mute, but ultimately he relents. 

“You have to understand, Mr. Holmes—they had Amanda. I didn’t know where. The only information I had was that they were looking for her husband, too. And the photo—I saved it when I saw it in the paper. It was the first photo I’d seen of her in years.”  
  
“And you made sure it got to them.”  
  
“You have quite the reputation. I’ve been around London long enough to know that. I had hoped, if anyone could save her—”

“I appreciate the flattery, Mr. Allen, but there was more to it than that.”

When Vanya doesn’t respond, Sherlock pushes further.  
  
“It’s a perfectly noble thing, to want to spare your daughter the pain of seeing her husband die too.” 

“I didn’t feel that I had any other choice.”  
  
“Of course. Like I said, no need to apologize to me. You might want to apologize to the man who ended up with a bullet through the heart, because of you, but—” 

“I couldn’t pass the information onto them myself, but I didn’t expect it to lead to his death. He wasn’t a friend, but he was an acquaintance, and I didn’t intend for him to die.”

Sherlock makes no comment on Vanya's last remark. Instead, he says, "I suspect your subterfuge was not the only evidence they had to go on."  
  
Vanya looks up, surprised. "How so?"  
  
"I believe Mar—Amanda had the same plan."

Vanya shrugs, and a smile almost shows up in his expression. "She was my daughter, as much as she hated it."

They both lapse into silence for several long minutes, until Vanya asks, “What more do you want from me, Mr. Holmes? Everything I might have told you, you appear to already have guessed yourself.” 

“I know quite a lot about you, Mr. Allen, and even more about your daughter, but I need to know everything about these men, anything you can tell me. I need you to lead me to them.”  
  
“I don’t know where they are anymore than you do.”  
  
“But you know people who do. You’ve already been in touch with them, albeit indirectly. Whatever connections you have, I need you to use them. This is the only way.”  
  
When Vanya remains silent, Sherlock presses further, “Will you help me, Mr. Allen? These are the men who strapped a bomb to your daughter’s chest, who tracked her down, and murdered her.”  
  
“You’re crazy to go after them Mr. Holmes, but—” 

He pauses, before acquiescing, “Yes, I’ll help you.”  
  
Sherlock’s only response is to hand Vanya a piece of paper with his number, while saying, “I hope to hear from you soon.”

Sherlock starts to leave, but then he pauses and turns back to Vanya, to ask one more, critical question. 

“In your estimation, how likely is it that they’ll figure out John’s identity as Mary’s husband?”  
  
“It’s possible, maybe even likely, but it’s hard to say.”  
  
“And if they did find out John’s identity, would they go after him again?”  
  
“Who can say? Maybe Stas feels like he’s gotten his revenge, but vengeance is a tricky thing. You have to understand, Mr. Holmes, this man—Stas—spent the last fifteen years in prison, plotting the revenge of his brother’s death. What could possibly satisfy that level of anger?”

The muscles around Sherlock’s face tighten, but all he says to Vanya is, “Thank you.”

And with that, Sherlock turns around, hails a taxi, and heads back to the hospital.  


  

 

The next day, as he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of his mobile.

He picks up the phone to see a text from John. 

_Lestrade arrested them, but they didn’t have anything useful to say. What next?_  

There is so much he could tell John—about his conversation with Vanya Petrov, about the leads he has his homeless network investigating at this very moment, about the plans that are beginning to take shape, but instead he says— 

_I’m working on the next steps. Mycroft assures me that I’ll be released within the next few days. I’ll be in a better position to continue the investigation once I’m back in Baker Street. SH_  

And then he slips back into his thoughts. 


	8. The Letter

Sherlock had only been out of the hospital for 24 hours when he got the news that he had been hoping for, delivered to him via a member of his homeless network. 

Hastily scrawled on a torn piece of paper were the words— 

_I know where they are. Meet me after closing for details._

 

As directed, Sherlock arrives a few minutes after Vanya has finished closing up the shop. 

“You have good news for me, then?”  
  
“I know where you can find them, yes. You were fortunate that they decided to do a little business while they were still in London.”  
  
“By business you mean drug smuggling and arms dealings, yes?”  
  
“Among other things.”  
  
“How long do we have?” 

“A week, ten days at the most, before they’re gone.” 

“We should get started then. I need you to tell me everything that I might need to know if I’m going to face them.” 

“I have one condition, Mr. Holmes.”

Caught off guard, Sherlock looks at Vanya, suspiciously, “And that is?”  
  
“You have to let me come with you.”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth to object, but Vanya interrupts— 

“These men, they killed my daughter. They took away the only good thing that was left in my life and I—I didn’t even get say goodbye, to see her one last time. Don’t take this away from me too.”  
  
Sherlock studies Vanya’s face carefully before nodding his assent. 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”  
  
“Call me Sherlock. If we’re going to ambush a group of homicidal Russian drug smugglers, we should at least be on a first name basis.” 

The usually stern expression on Vanya’s face almost turns into a smile, although he quickly suppresses it. However, he does reach his hand out to Sherlock, and they shake hands. 

And then they begin to plan.

 

  

 

  
Two weeks after his last visit to Sherlock’s bedside, John is on his way to the market, walking quickly, fast enough that he doesn’t even notice the homeless man begging on the street corner, until the man shouts, “Hey, you—” 

John keeps walking, until the man shouts even louder—  
  
“John Watson!”  
  
And that’s enough for him to stop in his tracks. He turns around, goes up to the man, ready to fight, but for his part, the man shoves an envelope at John and says—  
  
“I’m supposed to give this to you.”  
  
“Are you one of Sherlock’s blokes?”  
  
“You mean Shezza?”  
  
“Christ—never mind. Am I supposed to pay you?”  
  
“He takes care of that.”  
  
“Thanks, then, I guess.”  
  
The homeless man shrugs, and returns the ledge that he had previously been perched on.  
  
For John’s part, he abandons all plans of going to the market. Instead, he begins walking—even faster than before—back to his flat.

As soon as he gets inside, he rips open the letter—the only thing on the envelope is his name, nothing else, but he would recognize Sherlock’s handwriting anywhere.  
  
Inside, there is a single piece of paper upon which is written: 

_Dear John,_

_I want you to know that it’s over. I’m sure that you will be angry at me for having excluded you from the completion of this task, but I believe that it was in your best interest to do so._

_There are many more details that I could share if it’s important to you to hear them, but all that really bears saying is, I was able to track down the men who were responsible for your wife’s murder, and I disposed of them appropriately._

_If you want further proof, my brother can answer any questions you might have. But I hope you will rest easier tonight knowing that some justice has been done, although I’m well aware that nothing short of bringing your wife back to life could ease your heavy burden._

_Bearing in mind your words at the hospital, I have chosen to send you this letter to save you the burden of ending our acquaintance in person._

_Goodbye, John. I’m sorry for all the pain and loss that I caused you. You were always a net force of good in my life, and I regret that I seem to have brought so much destruction into yours._   
  
_I know you have a long, hard road ahead of you, but I hope that one day—somehow—you will find a way to be happy._   
  
_You certainly deserve that._

_Sherlock_

As soon as he gets to the end of the letter, he feels his vision start to tunnel—it’s like slamming full force into a brick wall—those two words— 

_It’s over_  

He can’t even begin to sort through the vast jumble of emotions that well up and threaten to overwhelm him, and so he grabs onto the one that comes at him most strongly, the most powerful— 

_Rage_

Without a second’s thought, he grabs his coat, walks out the door, flags down the first taxi that he sees, and in response to the driver’s “Where to?”

He says, “221b Baker Street.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sort of cliffhanger, but chapter 9 should be out very soon, and it will include lots of feels-y goodness. Sherlock and John have a lot to work through so Ch 9 is turning out to be a very long chapter.
> 
> I'd also like to say a big thank you to all of the readers who have stuck with the story so far, and an extra big thank you to those people who have taken the time to review. 
> 
> Oh, and in case you were wondering, we will find out more about what went on with Vanya and Sherlock taking down the Russian gang, but not for another couple chapters.


	9. Confrontations...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to have Chapter 9 and Chapter 10 be one chapter, but it ended up being really long, and I'm still working on editing the second part, so I thought I'd go ahead and post this. The original title was going to be "Confrontations and Conversations" so now I divided it up into "Ch 9: Confrontations" and "Ch 10: Conversations." Enjoy!

When the cab pulls up to the curb, John shoves a handful of money at the driver, jumps out onto the pavement, races up the stairs, pushes open the unlocked front door, barrels up the next flight of stairs, and bangs on the door marked 221b. 

A moment later, Sherlock opens the door and begins to say, “John, did you—” 

But that’s as far as he gets before John breaks in. 

“How dare you—how dare you go off and do this without me!”

“You got my letter, then?”  
  
“Of course I got your bloody letter. You had no right—I should have been the one—” 

“The one to what? Kill them? Ah, but you didn’t want to just execute them, did you? You wanted to torture them, give them just a small window into the agony that you’re experiencing right now.”  
  
“That's what they deserved!”

“Yes, of course they deserved it! They deserved all the pain that could be inflicted on them. But I couldn’t let you do that. Mary would never have wanted you to become that person.” 

“Don’t you dare—don’t you dare say her name. She was _my_ wife. These were the men who killed her, who took her away from me. I should have been there—I should have been the one—”

Sherlock is remarkably calm in the face of John's anger, which only makes John feel more fury.                                                                                        

"Killing those men wouldn't have done anything to help you heal. Please, John, trust me, on this.“

"How am I supposed to trust you? You lied to me! You went behind my back to do this, you pretended to be dead and let me suffer for two bloody years, and christ knows what else."

"You can trust me because I care about you John. I would never do anything to cause you harm."

"You don't know what it's like to care about someone the way I loved Mary. You have no idea how much it hurt to lose her. You couldn't possibly understand—"

John's words are enough to make Sherlock finally snap. 

"Fine, John. Clearly you believe me at least partially culpable for your wife’s death, and now I’ve robbed you of the ability to seek your violent justice. All that anger that you’re feeling, why not take it out on me? I can see it, every time you look at me. The rage that you feel, that’s just looking for an escape-ready to bubble over at any minute. It needs an outlet, doesn't it?"

“You’re out of your mind.” 

“What does that matter to you?” 

“Stop bloody manipulating me, Sherlock!”  
  
Without even thinking, John starts moving towards Sherlock—his footsteps falling loud and heavy on the wooden floors—he doesn’t know what he’s doing, what he’s about to do, even as he balls up his fists and feels his nails digging into his palms. 

Then, when he’s only a few feet away, he sees it—almost imperceptible—a flinch, completely unconscious, a reflex but still undeniable— 

John feels like something inside of him just died. 

He immediately steps back, his shoulders slump, as he says, in a quiet voice, “Sherlock, I would never hurt you. Not like—not like that.” 

Then, before Sherlock can respond, John says, “I need to go.”  
  
And just like that, he’s gone again. 

The couch seems too far away so Sherlock sinks to the floor, where he cradles his side, stares at the floor, and tries hard to focus on breathing.

 

 

   

John doesn’t bother calling a cab. Instead, he marches down the pavement, at breakneck speed, shoving past people, with no destination in mind. All he knows is that he has to keep moving. 

He turns the corner down a less congested block, and as he pauses to catch his breath, a black car with tinted windows pulls up beside him.  
  
The driver-side window rolls down, but John knows who it’s going to be even before the face is revealed.  
  
In lieu of a greeting, Mycroft asks, “Need a ride?” 

“I prefer to walk.”  
  
“It’s important.”  
  
“Isn’t it always?” 

“Don’t make me order you.”  
  
“I’m not in the mood, Mycroft.”  
  
“Five minutes of your time. That’s all I ask. After that, if you so choose, you can go in peace. You will hear nothing more from me or from Sherlock.”  
  
“Five minutes?”  
  
“That’s all I ask.” 

Grudgingly, John sits down in the passenger seat, slamming the car door once he enters.

“What is this about, Mycroft?”  
  
“You are understandably angry and grieving after losing your wife in such tragic circumstances, but do you really think it’s wise to compound this tragedy by writing off your closest friend?” 

“I'm pretty sure this isn't any of your business.”  
  
“Sherlock’s business is my business, and he cares about you a great deal, as inept as he is at expressing it.” 

“Sometimes I can’t tell whether he cares about anything other than his bloody puzzles. Oh, and rushing off into dangerous situations without any consideration for—”  
  
“This is the man who dove into a fire to rescue you, forgave your wife after she nearly killed him, and gave a remarkably sentimental toast at your wedding. Do you really believe he doesn’t care for you at all?”  
  
John opens his mouth to fire back, stops, then says with a tired sigh, “Not when you put it like that.”

“And yet you refuse to reconcile with him.”  
  
That's enough to get John's temper back up. “I lost my wife because he was too bloody proud to go for help. I lost her because he pissed off some Russian gang doing god knows what—” 

Mycroft holds up a hand to stop John mid-sentence. 

“Your understanding of the situation is very limited, Dr. Watson, and although I believe it best that Sherlock corrects most of your misconceptions, I will say this: Your wife did not die because of Sherlock, but Sherlock did nearly die because of your wife—because he wanted to save her and to protect you—even after he nearly died at her hands not so many months ago.”

“So these men—they weren’t after Sherlock? But then why—” 

“I imagine you have a great many questions, but I am not the person to answer them. However, you have been laboring under a very false assumption, and you have been taking out your anger on the least deserving recipient. It's time for you to face the fact that your wife, as much as you may have loved her, made a series of decisions that ultimately led to her demise, and that Sherlock has done everything in his power to protect you."

"Was he supposed to be protecting me when he pretended to throw himself off a building? Because I wouldn't have put my worst enemy through that."  
  
"Yes, apologies for that whole affair, but if you want to bear a grudge for that ordeal, you should blame me far more than Sherlock."

Mycroft pauses, waiting to see if John will interject further, and then says, "The last thing I will add is this: whatever his flaws—and my brother certainly has many—Sherlock cares for you deeply, and he has risked life and limb—in more ways than you can possibly imagine—to protect you. I thought it important that you know that.” 

Finally, Mycroft asks, “Where to?”  
  
John stares at him for several long moments, before conceding with, “As if you don’t already know the bloody answer to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big brother Mycroft to the rescue! In the next chapter we'll see if Mycroft's words were enough to knock some sense into John's stubborn head. I think it's about time that these two hashed things out, don't you?
> 
> I hope to get the next part up very soon. Plenty of feels up ahead!


	10. And Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons that I’ll get into more later, Sherlock has decided not to tell John about Vanya’s role in this whole thing for now, so that’s why he leaves certain things out and adjusts his story a little bit when he discusses how everything went down.

A few minutes later, Mycroft lets John out on the corner of Baker Street and then drives off into the night. 

John stands on the curb, staring at the door for several long moments before he gets up the courage to enter. 

When he gets to the top of the stairs, the door is unlocked, and there is no light except the dim glow of the fire, and no sounds other than the crackling of the wood in the hearth. 

He calls out, tentatively, “Sherlock?” 

“In here.” 

John turns the corner to see Sherlock hunched over at the kitchen table. 

“Bit dark in here, don’t you think?”  
  
“I prefer it this way.”  
  
“Suit yourself, I guess.”

John suddenly feels incredibly out of his element. The anger has all but disappeared leaving a gaping hole in its wake. He feels uneasy, and part of him wants to run away again, but he forces himself to stay.

Turning his attention back to Sherlock, he asks, “What are you doing? Trying to memorize the blood stains on the kitchen table?”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t respond to John’s attempt at humor. Instead, he says, quietly, “I assume you didn’t come by to have a friendly chat.”  
  
“No, I—” 

John pauses, takes a deep breath before saying, “I want you to tell me everything. Start to finish. Who did this, why, how you caught them, and what you did to them.”

Sherlock redirects his attention from the kitchen table, but chooses to stare off into the distance rather than look directly at John.

“There are some things that I would rather not have you know—that I believe it is in your best interest not to know.”  
  
“You’re wrong, Sherlock. This one time, you’re so wrong. I need to know. I’ve been driving myself crazy imagining all of this, what might have happened, who these people were, how you figured it out, what you did to them. It’s—I can’t escape it. Whatever the truth is, I need to know. I don’t think I can move on any other way.”  
  
John’s voice drops a little lower. “Please, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock looks up, stares into John’s face, trying to read his expression despite the darkness of the room. After a few moments, he gestures to the other seat at the kitchen table. 

After John sits down, Sherlock says, “I never intended to tell you much of this. I had hoped—I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I should have known you wouldn’t rest until you knew every last gory detail.” 

With a sigh, Sherlock adds, “I’m not entirely sure where to begin—” 

“How about why these men were after Mary.”  
  
Sherlock gives him a sharp look. “How did you—”

“Mycroft.”  
  
“Ah, yes, my meddling older brother. I’ll be sure to have a word with him after this is settled.”  
  
For once, John finds himself in the uncomfortable position of wanting to defend Mycroft. “He was just looking out for you.”

An unspoken,  _I should have been looking out for Sherlock too_ , echoes in John’s mind, and he feels an uncomfortable knot form his stomach. He starts to open his mouth, to offer an explanation for his behavior— but Sherlock has already commenced his recounting of the facts. 

“In the course of her early work for the CIA—the ‘wet jobs’ that Magnussen referenced—Mary was involved in breaking up a massive ring of Eastern European drug traders. When her involvement became known, she was a target, which is why she took on a new identity and moved to London. That’s why they wanted to kill her, but not just her. They wanted you as well. Revenge is a very powerful motivator.” 

“But why couldn’t you phone for help? You could have gone to Lestrade or—” 

“I had to act quickly. Mycroft was out of the country, and I needed to keep you away. I had hoped that I could make the trade—me, in exchange for Mary. I didn’t consider at the time that Mary was their target all along, although I should have. I—or rather you—would just have been collateral damage. A way to twist the knife a little further.”

“I did in fact leave orders for Wiggins to contact Lestrade, but I miscalculated again, because as soon as I arrived at the address they gave me, they transported me somewhere else. Maybe, if they hadn’t moved me—if Lestrade had arrived at the right address—” 

Sherlock trails off, and John doesn’t have it in himself to push further on that line of questioning. 

Instead, he asks in a quiet voice,  “Why did you lie to me? Why did you let me go on believing for so long that all of this was your fault?”  
  
“You assumed it was my fault. And, in a way, you were right.”

“I don’t follow.”  
  
Sherlock reflexively opens his mouth, but John quickly cuts him off with, “Don’t be a smartass.”  
  
So Sherlock swallows the  _Obviously_  that had automatically sprung to mind.

Sherlock has to choose his next words carefully. He's not yet willing to reveal Vanya Petrov's role in the entire affair, and he hopes to go to his grave without revealing to John the choice that Mary made to contact Sherlock via her kidnapper's in place of John. Sherlock doesn't have to feign the emotions behind the words. Every moment since Mary's death has been weighed down by the tremendous guilt he feels at not being able to protect her.

In fact, the emotion is so strong that he has to push past the lump in the back of the throat to say, “I’m the reason they found Mary in the first place. The picture in the paper of the three of us from the Scotland Yard Gala, that’s—that’s how they found her.” 

“Oh, god.”  
  
“The only fortunate—” 

“Fortunate?  
  
“Do you remember your annoyance at the photographer? How we were arranged so that I was standing next to Mary? The incorrect caption led them to believe that I was you, which is why they slipped the mobile phone into my coat pocket, and why no alarm bells were raised when I showed up at the warehouse in your place.”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment to try to blot out the images that spring to mind of that day—standing outside, banging on the door—not knowing what waited on the other side—praying that Wiggins would keep John away. He feels his pulse spike and his breathing quickens as he's taken back to that day—the hopelessness, the fear, trying to come up with some way to salvage the situation, to save Mary if not himself—

His spiraling thoughts are interrupted by John asking, incredulously, “So you mean fortunate because you almost died instead of me?”

The only response John gets is a nod.  
  
“Sherlock, that’s—I mean—” 

Sherlock cuts John off before he can finish that sentence. 

“How much more do you want to know?” 

“How did you find them?”  
  
“I sent my people out to gather information. I knew that I had to be quick about it, before they all dispersed. Fortunately, they decided to hang around to conduct a few ‘business deals’ while they were here. With the help of certain connection, it really was quite easy to track them down.”  
  
“And then?” 

“And then I killed them, each and everyone of them.” 

“You shouldn’t have done that.”  
  
“Why? Because they didn’t deserve to die? Or because you wanted to do it instead of me?”

John doesn't respond right away,  

“I tried to save Mary, and I failed. But I still had a chance to save you. True, I could have handed them over to Lestrade or even to Mycroft, but certain circumstances made that impossible. It’s probably for the best really. I know that you couldn’t rest—couldn’t move forward with your life—unless you knew for sure that justice had been done.” 

What Sherlock doesn’t say out loud is:  _And I couldn’t rest until I knew you would be safe from them_. 

“And so I killed them. I slipped into their hiding place, and dispatched of them one by one.”  
  
“How do you know that there aren’t others?”  
  
“Trust me. I was very thorough.”  
  
Something in Sherlock’s words sent a chill down John’s spine

“It should have been me.”  
  
“You are not a murderer, John. These men deserved anything you could possibly do to them, but I couldn’t let you go down that path.” 

“Then what made it okay for you to do it?”       

“I tried to save Mary, and I failed. But I still had a chance to save you.”  
  
“Save me from what?”  
  
“From yourself, John.”  
  
John wants to argue with Sherlock. He wants to declare that he wouldn’t have tracked them down and wrung all of their necks with his bare hands, that he hadn't wanted to beat them until they breathed their very last breath—but he can’t. 

With forced levity, Sherlock says, “Besides, after my time abroad and that little affair with Magnussen, I already have plenty of blood on my hands. What’s a little more?”

Sherlock’s attempt at dark humor falls flat, as John looks at him sharply.

“You don’t actually believe that.”  
  
Sherlock turns earnest once again. “I believe that the most important thing was to keep you from doing something that you would come to regret. This was not an act of vengeance on my part. I did it to protect you. You may have been a soldier, but you are not a killer.” 

They lapse into silence, as John closely studies his hands in his lap, and Sherlock returns to studying the stains and scratches on the kitchen table. 

Finally, even though he has to force out the words, John says, “There’s one more thing that I need to know.”  
  
Sherlock waits patiently while John fights to maintain his composure.

“What did she—what were the last words that she said?”  
  
Sherlock feels like each syllable is a struggle, as he closes his eyes and remembers that moment. He manages to choke out, “’Please take care of John,’ and—” 

Sherlock swallows heavily, “And, ‘I’m sorry.’”  
  
John scrubs his face with his hands. 

Sherlock reaches his hand across the table without actually making contact and says, “I am sorry, John, for everything that happened. More sorry than you’ll ever know.”  
  
“I do know that, Sherlock. At least, I know that now. I shouldn’t have been—it wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could. More than I had any right to expect.”  
  
“I vowed to protect you and Mary, but I couldn’t save her. I should have been able to—If only I had—”  
  
“Sherlock, you did everything that you could, and you nearly died in the process. I should never have blamed you. The only people that deserve blame are the men who did this and—” 

John stops, midsentence, as the full reality hits him.

Sherlock studies John’s face, as he prompts, “And?”

The words feel like they’re being dragged out of him, but John manages to say, “And Mary, for the things she did that made them come after her.”

“Whatever sins she may have committed in the past, Mary was an extraordinary woman who loved you as much as anyone could. She was no less than you deserved.” 

The sincerity in Sherlock’s words make the ache in John’s chest only hurt more, and he can’t stop the words from spilling out— 

“I think about her all the time. It feels like every minute of every day. I think about what our future could have been like—what we could have had together. About our future children, about how we would have grown old together. If only none of this—” 

John feels his control start to slip, and he presses his hands up against his face, his elbows resting heavily on the table. 

After several minutes of silence lapse, punctuated only by the heavy sounds of John’s labored breathing, Sherlock says, softly— 

“I think about her too. I wake up in the morning every day and wonder why it had to be her and not me. I think about the life you two could have had together. I’m a brilliant and capable man, but even I can’t trade places with the dead.”  
  
In an even quieter voice, he adds, “I wish I could. I would have done anything to spare you the hurt of losing her.” 

At that final sentiment, John looks up with red eyes, and asks, “Even dying yourself?” 

“Especially that.” 

Too overcome to say anything else, John reaches over and put his hand on top of Sherlock’s, but he instantly recoils.

“Jesus, Sherlock, your hand is freezing.”

Before Sherlock can protest, John quickly flips Sherlock's hand over and takes his pulse. 

“And you’re tachycardic.” 

John gets up and switches on the light.

Sherlock is unnaturally pale, and there is a thin sheen of sweat over his sharp features. John notices for the first time the glassy look in his eyes and the slight tremors that periodically shake his body. 

God, how had he not noticed this before? What kind of doctor is he? 

“The kind who is still out of his mind with grief after the death of his wife.” 

“I didn’t realize I said that out loud.” 

“You didn’t have to. I know that look.” 

“You’re a smart bastard, even when you’re on death’s doorstep. And you’re an idiot for running around doing god knows what when you’re still in such terrible shape. When’s the last time you slept? Or ate?” 

“Ate? Hospital. Slept? I don’t know—does lying on the couch staring at the ceiling count?” 

“No.” 

“Then I’m not sure. What day is it?” 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. You stay here, and don’t even think about moving. I’m getting my bag—“

“Your bag’s not here anymore.”

“Right, um—where’s your coat?”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything.  
  
“Sherlock where’s your coat? Or your dressing gown?”

“Why?”

“We’re going to the hospital.”  
  
“No, we aren’t. At least I'm not.”  
  
“Do you have to be so bloody stubborn all the time?”  
  
“No more hospitals, John.” 

Sherlock’s words are definitive, although his look is pleading. Still, John is unmoved. 

“We have to get you help. You could be bleeding internally or septic, and I’m not equipped to diagnose or treat you from here.” 

In a quieter tone, John says, “Please, Sherlock. I can’t—” His voice cracks. “I can’t lose you too.” 

Sherlock breaks eye contact to look down at the table, but he relents. “Coat’s on the back of my bedroom door.”  
  
John quickly grabs it and comes back into the kitchen.  
  
“Do you think you can make the cab ride over? I can call an ambulance.”  
  
“No, that won’t be necessary.” 

John looks skeptical, but he doesn’t argue. 

Sherlock starts to push himself up from the table, but instantly the color drains from his face, and he drops heavily back into his chair, his breaths coming short and fast, and his knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the table with his left hand. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. What did you do to yourself?”  
  
John doesn’t really expect an answer, and Sherlock doesn’t give him one. 

Without pressing the issue further, John goes to Sherlock’s side, and let’s Sherlock throw his arm over John’s shoulder. John reaches his other arm around Sherlock’s side, helping to steady him, although at Sherlock’s flinch, he moves his arm lower, below the rib cage.  

The positioning should be awkward, what with Sherlock more than a head taller than John, but with Sherlock already slumped over, it almost doesn’t matter.

John can feel Sherlock shaking—from pain, exhaustion, stress, he couldn’t say. A part of him knows this is crazy— _just call a damn ambulance_ —but he can’t do it. He’s already betrayed Sherlock so many times in recent memory, and he can’t bear to do it again. 

Carefully, and slowly, they make their way out of the kitchen, into the living room—and even more slowly—down the stairs, until they’re outside, where John hails a taxi.

Once they’re in the cab, John reaches over for Sherlock’s wrist, quickly takes his pulse and counts his breaths, which are coming fast and shallow. 

“Christ, Sherlock, you look terrible.”  
  
“You’re too kind.”

John reaches up and presses his hand against Sherlock’s forehead.  
  
“You’ve got a fever. Have you at least been staying hydrated? Stupid question, I’m sure you haven’t.”  
  
They ride in silence for awhile, until Sherlock says, “I can’t spend another night in that godforsaken place.” 

“You might not have a choice.” 

“I’m very good at daring escapes.” 

“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”  
  
“I’ll fight back.”  
  
“You’re acting like a child. And in your condition, I could definitely take you.”

“Hmm.”

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. If you cooperate with the doctors—and that means no lying or goading—I’ll do what I can to convince them to let you out as soon as possible. But only if you agree to take it easy. How does that sound?”  
  
“It sounds like I don’t have much choice.”  
  
“That’s the spirit.” 

John reaches over to check Sherlock’s radial pulse again, but in the process, he catches a glimpse of Sherlock’s knuckles, and—before Sherlock can object—he has Sherlock’s hand in his, examining it closely, noticing the dark coloring of recent bruising. 

“What happened to your hand?”  
  
He only gets silence in response.

John traces his fingers over the knuckles lightly, but even just the soft pressure is enough to make Sherlock flinch away.  
  
“Sherlock, is this from—” 

John stops his question partway through, because the look on Sherlock’s face tells him everything. A knot forms in his stomach as he thinks about what Sherlock must have done—who he must have done it too—to cause this kind of damage. 

Sherlock turns his head away, looking out the window, away from John, but now, with the new angle, John catches sight of something that only makes the sick feeling in his stomach magnify. At first he thinks—maybe it’s just a shadow—but no, he can see it clearly—the bruising around Sherlock’s neck, so distinctive, the kind of bruising that comes from another person’s grip. 

Without thinking, he reaches towards Sherlock, to examine further, but Sherlock catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, and reflexively whips his body around and grabs John’s hand in his, with a surprisingly strong grip—hard enough to hurt, although John pays it no mind, and Sherlock releases his hand an instant later, as he cradles his side carefully. 

“Sherlock—” 

“I’m sorry.”  
  
John has to think for a moment before he realizes what Sherlock is even apologizing for. When he does, John says, “No, I should have warned you. I was just—Sherlock, this could be really bad. After the injuries you sustained from—” 

 _the explosion_  

John can’t get those words out though as his thoughts start to spiral out of control so he takes a deep breath and says, more calmly, “Please, Sherlock, let me take a look?”  
  
Sherlock stares at John’s expression intently, before nodding his ascent, and shifting his attention to the window once more. 

John leans forward, and begins to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt, and pulling the shirt aside, he examines the skin underneath—swelling, black and blue. He brushes his fingers over Sherlock's ribcage lightly, and even that’s enough to make Sherlock jump. 

“This is bad.”  
  
“Is that your professional medical opinion? Or are just trying to cheer me up again?”  
  
“I’m just worried.” 

“You shouldn’t be.” 

However, Sherlock undermines his own argument, when a moment later, the taxi goes over a deep pothole, and the jolt is enough to make Sherlock gasp in pain, and double over, wrapping his arms protectively around his midsection. 

He’s seen Sherlock at less than his best on a number of occasions, but this may be their worst ordeal yet. His skin is practically grey, his eyes unfocussed, small tremors every few moments, his skin hot to the touch, his breathing labored. 

“They’re going to ask what happened. What do you want me to tell them?”  
  
“I fell down the stairs.”  
  
“We need something more plausible than that.”  
  
“Look, I’m not going to tell them that you went after a gang of Russian drug smugglers, but they’ll need to know what happened to accurately assess your injuries. This is important, Sherlock.” 

At this point, John is keeping his hand permanently wrapped around Sherlock’s wrist, if only to reassure himself that his heart is still beating, and now, he can feel the pulse under his fingers spike as Sherlock says— 

“Fall from approximately 20 feet. Fist fight. Blows to abdomen, and—” 

Sherlock stops, so John fills in the gap. “You were nearly strangled to death.”  
  
“Not the first time.”

“Jesus Christ—you could have died. You could still—” 

“I’m fine.”  
  
“That may be the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”  
  
Despite the tension in his body, Sherlock manages a slight smile as he says, “And that’s saying a lot.” 

They lapse into silence for a little while, with John's hand still lightly holding onto Sherlock's wrist.

Finally, Sherlock admits, quietly, “I feel a bit light-headed.”

“Christ—we should have taken a bloody ambulance. Internal bleeding, fractured ribs—this isn’t good.”

“Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“Just hang in there, we’re only a minute away.” 

When they do finally reach Bart’s, Sherlock can barely make it out of the taxi. Although John has managed to maintain his composure well enough up until now, suddenly he starts to feel overwhelmed by all of these emotions—fear foremost among them—but he manages to hold it together while he gets the attention of the staff. Fortunately, one look at the state Sherlock is in is enough for them to get him on a gurney and rushed off into triage. 

And just like that, Sherlock is gone, and John is left to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to finally get this chapter posted! All of this angst has been building up, and I figured it's time for that to start paying off. Of course, John and Sherlock have a lot to work through, and there's still awhile to go before this story's completion, but at least John and Sherlock's friendship is on the mend. They still both have a lot further to go before they're fully healed, but now they can help each other. 
> 
> I've really appreciated the reviews and positive feedback that I've gotten on the last couple chapters, so thanks for that! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you have a chance, I'd love to hear what you thought of this latest installment.


	11. In Hospital

 

When Sherlock wakes up from the anesthesia, John is sitting in the visitor’s chair—the one beside his bed, not the one across the room. 

As soon as Sherlock opens his eyes, John exhales. “Thank god you’re awake.”

Sherlock starts to sit up and winces. 

“Don’t get up. You’re still in pretty rough shape.”

Easing himself back down into the bed, Sherlock asks, “How bad was it?”  
  
“It's pretty clear that you've been running yourself ragged doing god knows what. They had to rush you into surgery since you were practically on the verge of bleeding to death, and you've got several broken ribs, not to mention multiple hematomas in places that were very awkward to explain to the doctors. Oh, and you got yourself concussed again, which you should really stop doing if you want to stay frustratingly brilliant.”  
  
Despite the discomfort, Sherlock smirks, just a little. “So what _exactly_ did you say to doctors?”  
  
“Actually, Mycroft took care of that, so you’ll have to ask him.”  
  
“I think I’ll live with the mystery for now. Did he threaten to visit?” 

“He didn’t say.”  
  
“And even if he did, you wouldn’t tell me.”  
  
“And give you an incentive to run away?” 

“I don’t need any more incentive than I already have.” 

John’s expression is sympathetic, although there’s a sternness in his voice. “You can’t just waltz out of here, Sherlock. You really did a number on yourself. Not just the physical injuries, but you’ve lost a lot of weight that you didn’t have to lose. You’re not well, and frankly, you look like shit.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t verbally agree with John's assessment, but he also doesn’t contradict it. Instead, he says with resignation, “I have to stay here, don’t I?” 

All the sternness is gone when John says, “Yeah, for now at least.”  
  
Sherlock grimaces, and John quickly adds, “But I could—do you want me to stay here tonight?”  
  
Sherlock waves him off. “No, it’s fine. One of us should get a decent night’s rest.”

“They’ll probably give you something to sleep, if you want it.” 

“I’ll be fine.”  
  
“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Go home, John.”

“I don’t mind.”  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m sure Mycroft will be inflicting me with his presence any minute now.” 

“Okay. If you’re sure?” 

“I am.”  
  
Still, John hangs around by the door. “Do you need anything else?”  
  
“You’ve done enough, John. Go home. Get some rest.” 

With one last goodbye and a promise to visit first thing in the morning, John leaves.

Once John has gone, Sherlock pulls out his mobile, and sends a familiar text: 

_Wiggins, you’re needed. The usual. Come at once. Bart’s, Rm 341. Be discreet._

  

 

 

When John arrives at the hospital the next day, Sherlock is awake and sitting up in bed, although if possible he looks even worse than he did the night before.

“Hey.”

“Hello, John.”  
  
“How are you feeling?”  
  
“Lovely. Never better.”  
  
“Dumb question, I guess. Did you get any sleep last night?”  
  
“Dumber question.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a no then.”  
  
“I can’t sleep in this place. It smells terrible, the walls are an offensive shade of beige, and there are too many people.”  
  
“Would you sleep better at Baker Street?”  
  
“Obviously.” 

Sherlock expects John to try to placate him with platitudes about listening to the doctors, but instead, John says, “I’ll see what I can do.” 

And then he turns around and walks back out the door.

 

  

 

  
A little while later, just as Sherlock is in the middle of plotting a way to climb out the third story hospital window, John comes back in, and says, “I spoke to your doctors and to your brother.”  
  
Sherlock's voice remains carefully neutral as he prompts, “And?”  
  
“I convinced them to let you go home.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“How do you know there’s a ‘but’?” 

“There always is.”  
  
“ _But_ you have to actually stay in Baker Street, in bed, or at least on the sofa. You have to eat and sleep, and I mean like a normal person, not like you usually do. It’s important that you rest up—no running around, no nearly getting yourself killed again.” 

Impatiently, Sherlock says, “Yes, yes, I’ll be the model patient.” 

“And—” 

“And? What else could they possibly want from me?”  
  
“I’ll be staying with you.”  
  
Sherlock responds immediately with, “You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“You can’t possibly be alone right now, and frankly, it’s only because I’m a doctor that this is even remotely possible. Plus I had to swear up and down to Mycroft that I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.” 

_And that I would provide daily updates._ But John doesn’t say that part out loud.  
  
John expects Sherlock to look pleased, but instead he’s gone quiet again.  
  
“What’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted?”  
  
“I’m not asking you to do this, John.”  
  
“You didn’t ask. You don’t have to. I’m offering.”  
  
When Sherlock doesn’t respond, John prompts, “So what do you think?” 

A little more sharply, Sherlock says, “I don’t need you to babysit me out of some sort of misplaced guilt.”  
  
“Don’t be so bloody stubborn.” John snaps automatically, but then softens his tone, as he adds, “Sherlock, look, I barely slept last night. I knew you would be miserable here, and I hated leaving you all alone like that. I’m the one who dragged you here in the first place—which I stand by, since you were practically on death’s door—but I promised to get you back home as soon as possible. I haven’t treated you as well as l—”

John pauses, scrubs his face with his hand, and lets out a deep sigh, before continuing. “Look, I’ve been a total arse, but you’re my best friend, and I’m trying to help you, so please, just let me.” 

Sherlock examines John's expression, and waits a few minutes before saying, “I suppose if you have your heart set on playing nurse maid—” 

“Good.” John nods, emphatically without even letting Sherlock finish. “I’ll let them know you’re leaving.” John is preparing to walk out the door, before he turns back around and adds, “Oh, here I brought you some fresh clothes to change into.” 

Sherlock glances down at the pile of clothes on a chair. “Those are pajamas.”

“I was afraid if I gave you real clothes you might try to give me the slip.” John’s tone is teasing, but there’s a slight undercurrent of truth. More seriously, he adds, “Also, you just had surgery. You should be as comfortable as possible.” 

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be comfortable traipsing around in London dressed like that.”

“You’re not going to be ‘traipsing around’ anywhere any time soon. If your brother had his way, you’d probably be handcuffed to that bed.”

“Is that supposed to make house arrest sound appealing?  
  
“No, but it has to be better than staying here.”  
  
“Yes, but that isn’t exactly a stiff competition.”

“Just put on your clothes.”  
  
Sherlock is about to make another comment about pajamas hardly counting as clothing, but John has already left the room.

With John gone, Sherlock changes, and then after a moment’s hesitation, reaches into the drawer, pulls out large book—this time it’s Homer, _The Odyssey_ —and quickly flips it open to glance at the contents. 

Two empty syringes and a third already prepared and ready to be used.

After an internal struggle—fearing John’s imminent return—Sherlock makes a split second decision and dumps the whole thing into the trash. 

A minute later, John opens the door partway and asks, “Ready to go?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
John opens the door more fully, to reveal a wheelchair.  
  
“You know the drill.”  
  
“I walked in here myself.”  
  
“I practically carried you.”  
  
“Semantics.”  
  
“Sherlock—” 

“All right. But only until we get to the curb.”  
  
“Deal.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it seems like things have turned around too quickly, don’t worry, there’s still a lot more for the boys to work through and lots more questions to be answered, like: Has Sherlock given up the drugs for good? Has John completely forgiven Sherlock? Will Sherlock finally lash out at John for being such a jerk? And whatever happened to Vanya? 
> 
> The next chapter, appropriately titled “Back to Baker Street” is close to done, and I’ll do my best to get it posted reasonably quickly. Stay tuned...
> 
> If you have a chance to leave a comment, I always love to get feedback!


	12. Back to Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken me a long time to get this story updated, but I have a little bit more free time this weekend, so I wanted to go ahead and get this updated. Many thanks to everyone who has kept up with this story, and an extra special thanks to those readers who have left feedback.

When they get out to the curb, there’s a car waiting for them, courtesy of Mycroft. 

Despite Sherlock’s protests, John insists on helping him out of the chair and into the back seat of the car. He has to bite his tongue to keep himself from commenting on how frail Sherlock seems, and he can’t help but watch as Sherlock winces at each bump and sharp turn that the car makes. 

All of this leaves John wondering if this wasn’t a remarkably stupid idea. And yet the thought of leaving Sherlock alone in the hospital seems cruel, and besides, Mycroft never would have allowed this if he thought it wasn’t in Sherlock’s best interest. 

After all, Mycroft was the one who stood by Sherlock, even when John didn’t.   
  
And now, it’s John’s turn to support his best friend, because clearly Sherlock can’t be trusted to take care of himself. 

When they do finally get to Baker Street, John gets out first, and does his best to help guide Sherlock up the stairs.   
  
The movement is slow, and neither of them speaks until they finally get to the top of the stairs and open the door, at which point Sherlock asks, “Why is there a hospital bed in the middle of the living room?”  
  
“Because you belong in a hospital.”  
  
“I thought the whole point was to get me out of there.”  
  
“No, the point is for you to get better. I figured you wouldn’t want to spend all your time in your room, so Mycroft arranged for this to be brought over.”  
  
“The sofa would have been fine.”  
  
“You’re too long to even comfortably lie down on that thing.” 

“There’s always the chair.”  
  
“You need to rest. In a bed.” 

Sherlock starts to protest again, but then he becomes aware of just how much standing for these short few minutes has drained him, and instead he says, “Have it your way,” as he allows John to steer him over to the bed. 

Once Sherlock is sitting on the bed, he starts to bend over to untie his shoes, but John says, quickly, “Here let me do it.”  
  
“I’m not completely helpless, you know.”  
  
“You’ve just had major abdominal surgery. The last thing you need is to risk ripping out those stitches.”  
  
“Are you planning on being this overbearing the entire time?”  
  
“It’s this or the hospital.”  
  
“I suppose this is marginally better, but it’s a close call.”  
  
“That’s the spirit.”  
  
After taking off Sherlock’s shoes, and helping him get settled into bed, John goes back to the car and grabs the rest of his stuff. 

When John gets back upstairs, Sherlock immediately says, “I’m bored.”  
  
“We’ve hardly been home for five minutes.”  
  
“Yes, and these have been the longest five minutes of my life.”  
  
“Really? This is worse than all the weeks you spent in the hospital?”  
  
“Well at least _they_ provided me with a morphine drip.”  
  
“Yes, and if you’re interested in intravenous drugs, you’d better get your arse back into the hospital, because we’re not messing around with that here.”  
  
“You’re a doctor.” 

“Yes, and in my medical opinion, it’s contraindicated for you to have intravenous morphine.”  
  
“Now you’re just trying to impress me with big words.” 

John’s tone gets a little sharper. “It’s not going to happen, Sherlock. End of story.”  
  
Sherlock crosses his arms, and leans back against the couch cushions, while John busies himself with straightening up the living area. 

A few minutes later John asks, “Is the pain that bad? I mean—I’m sure you’re in a lot of discomfort, you did nearly get yourself killed—again—but if the narcotics you’re taking aren’t enough to control the pain, maybe we need to get a second opinion.” 

There is something about the earnestness in John’s voice which makes Sherlock’s chest tighten, and he feels a pang of guilt when he thinks about how John would react if he knew about Sherlock’s recent ‘self medication.’ 

“It’s fine, John.”  
  
“We don’t have to go back to the hospital. I could phone into my practice, and we could stop by this afternoon.”

“Truly, it’s fine.”  
  
“Promise me you’ll tell me if it gets too bad?”  
  
“Scout’s honor.”  
  
A slight smile appears as John says, “I think I’ve heard that one before.”  
  
“Well, I am very honorable.” 

That’s enough for both of them to start laughing, and the moment of camaraderie—the reminder of what things used to be like between them—is almost enough to make Sherlock forget about Mary and the bomb and Vanya and all the many ways he’s been torn apart and patched together again.

 

  

 

A little while later, Sherlock is leaning back in the bed, staring at the ceiling, silently bristling at the strict orders for him to rest. 

_Resting is so boring. So tedious._  

He listens while John types away on his laptop and after several minutes, says, “So what will you call this? ‘The adventure of the invalid detective?’” 

Distractedly, John says, “Huh? Oh, I’m not writing about you.”  
  
“Hmmm.”  
  
“Don’t be offended. Not everything is about you.”  
  
In a mocking tone, Sherlock says, “It isn’t? That’s disappointing.”

A minute later, Sherlock presses, “So what _are_ you writing about?”  
  
“None of your business.”  
  
“It could by my business.”  
  
“Trust me, it’s not.”  
  
Sherlock starts to make a quip about ‘love letters’ then thankfully thinks better of it, realizing in a moment of unusual tact that it’s probably best not to taunt John about romance when his wife recently— 

His stomach clenches tightly at the thought. It had been so easy for a few blessed moments to forget about everything—to forget about all the intervening years and just pretend like things were how they were before the Fall. That it’s just John and Sherlock, the two of them, and that there wasn’t this empty space left in their life. 

He feels his heart rate spike and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tighten, and his breathing quickens—images started flashing in his mind— 

_Mary tied up to the chair_

_The look of fear and resignation on her face_

_The steel door—throwing himself against it_

_Desperately hoping for someone, anyone—_  

“Sherlock, are you okay?” 

John’s voice is enough to bring Sherlock back to the present, although as he comes back to himself he’s aware that his hands are clammy and his breaths are coming quick and fast. 

“Sherlock?”  
  
Suddenly feeling irritable, Sherlock snaps, “What?” 

“Are you feeling sick? You look like a bit feverish—” 

“I’m fine. I’m just—” 

“Just what?”  
  
Sherlock searches for something plausible and goes with, “Bored.” 

John reaches over to feel Sherlock’s forehead, and although he can’t help but notice the way Sherlock flinches—just the slightest bit—at the sudden movement, John doesn’t comment on it. 

Instead, he says, “You don’t feel feverish.”  
  
“Can you get a fever from boredom?”  
  
“No.” 

“That explains it, then.”

A moment later, John offers, “We could watch some telly.”  
  
“Boring.”  
  
“We could talk.”  
  
“More boring.”  
  
John rolls his eyes. “Let’s start with eating, then. You look like you haven’t consumed anything of substance in weeks.” 

“I eat.”  
  
“When you’re not being force fed by hospital staff?”  
  
Sherlock looks away, noncommittally. 

“Well, one of the requirements of this arrangement is that you eat regular meals.”  
  
“Did I agree to that? Because I don’t remember—”

“If you want to stay out of the hospital, then yes, you’ve agreed to it.”  
  
“You’re worse than Mycroft.”  
  
“I would be mortally offended if I actually thought you meant that.”  
  
“You should be.” 

“You know, your brother really does care about you. I mean, if he hadn’t stepped in—” 

“If you start singing my brother’s praises again, I can guarantee that I will be too nauseous to consume anything of substance for the rest of the day.”  
  
John smiles slightly. “Can’t have that I suppose.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“So, what do you want to eat?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Sherlock—”  
  
“I mean it. Nothing sounds appealing—”  
  
John opens his mouth, ready to reprimand, until Sherlock adds hastily—

“But, you’re the doctor, so I suppose I’ll have to eat whatever you tell me to.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes. Within reason.”  
  
“What counts as within reason?”  
  
“No snails. Or lima beans. I can’t tell you what I had to suffer through whenever Mycroft was allowed to dictate our dining choices.” 

“Fair enough. I’ll try to throw something—” 

“You do realize that there’s nothing edible in this flat, don’t you? Unless you count the collection of hands I have in the freezer. I’m hoping to develop a technique—”  
  
“I think this is a conversation that can wait until after we’ve eaten.”  
  
“You’re a doctor. Surely you can’t be put off by a little discussion of blood and guts.”  
  
“No, but I can tell when you’re stalling.” 

Sherlock shrugs, innocently.  
  
“Your brother said he would send some supplies over, so with any luck there will be something edible—”  
  
John is interrupted by a quick knock on the door, and a moment later Mrs. Hudson pokes her head in the door.  
  
“I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

John responds first with, “No, not at all.” 

Mrs. Hudson walks into the room and shuts the door. She smiles happily at John, but after a quick look in Sherlock’s direction, she says, “Oh, you look awful, Sherlock.”  
  
Irritably, Sherlock says, “I look a good deal better than that tailor—Mr. Wyatt is it?—who I saw you entertaining at a very late hour—” 

John’s sharp " _Sherlock"_ is enough to stop him from completing his sentence. Although Mrs. Hudson looks cross for a moment, a smile quickly returns to her face as she takes in the sight of both of them sitting in their respective chairs. “It’s so nice to have you two boys back together again.”

Rather than the usual denial about their being “together,” John surprises Sherlock by smiling and saying, “It’s nice to be back.” 

Mrs. Hudson asks, “Did you just get in?”  
  
“Yeah, a bit ago. I was just going to try to rustle up something to eat—” 

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ll throw something together.” 

“You really don’t have to—”  
  
“It’s no trouble at all. You two just rest up.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson starts to leave, but then a moment later turns around and says, “I should go freshen up your room as well. Sherlock hasn’t let me touch it in ages. Heaven knows what kind of shape it’s in.” 

Sherlock tenses a bit, as John says, “That’s funny. I was just up there, and it looked quite nice, actually. Sherlock said that you’d probably been up there already—” 

Sherlock clears his throat loudly and says, “Weren’t you supposed to be feeding me?”  
  
Seemingly unaware of Sherlock’s discomfort and John’s confusion, Mrs. Hudson says, “I’ll be up in a bit.” 

As Mrs. Hudson makes her back down the stairs, John turns to Sherlock, and Sherlock says, “Stop.” 

“I didn’t do anything.”  
  
“You were thinking.”  
  
John doesn't deny that, Instead he asks, “Were you cleaning my room? Because it sure doesn’t look like anything else in this flat has been cleaned any time in the last six months.” 

Sherlock shrugs, and says casually, “I was bored.” 

For a moment, it looks like John is ready to press the issue, but then he thinks better of it and says, “Yeah, all right.” 

And with that, John returns to his typing, and Sherlock goes back to counting the cracks in the ceiling.    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is close to being completed, so I may be able to get that posted in the next week or so. Stay tuned, and please leave a comment if you have a chance :)


	13. Things that go bump in the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so grateful to everyone who has left kudos and comments on this story so far. It's really nice to know that readers are enjoying this story.
> 
> Now onto the next chapter...

  
Sherlock dreads going to sleep. 

Of course, he never much liked sleeping, but after everything that’s happened, since Mary— 

Well, he hasn’t slept well in a long time. 

Some nights he just tosses and turns, never able to fully sink into a restful sleep, jolting awake at even the slightest sound, the shifting of the trees, creaking of a floor board. 

Then there are the nights when he does get to sleep, only to jolt awake to escape the throes of a nightmare. 

As it gets later and later, Sherlock dreads having to go to bed, which is why, when John says, “I think it’s time for you to get some rest.”

Sherlock automatically protests. “I don’t feel tired.”

“You look like death.” 

“I’m pretty sure dead people don’t need sleep.”  
  
“ _And_ if you don’t start taking better care of yourself, you’re going to go from looking like a corpse to actually being a corpse.” 

“I suppose being a corpse would be fairly boring.”  
  
“I should think so. Now go get some rest. And no trying to run experiments from your bedroom.”

Snidely, Sherlock says, “Do you want to come tuck me in, too?”  
  
“I think you can handle that yourself.” 

Still, John does help Sherlock get up out of the hospital bed, and he helps him down the hallway, allowing Sherlock to lean most of his weight on him, until they get to Sherlock’s room, where John helps ease him into bed. 

“Let me know if you need anything.”  
  
Sherlock only acknowledges John’s words with a nod of his head. 

John turns off the lights and says, “Good night,” leaving Sherlock staring at the ceiling, fighting the urge to sleep.

  

  
  
 

Sherlock is lying on the couch when he gets a phone call— 

It’s Mary’s voice—she’s desperate, sobbing—Sherlock can’t make out what she’s saying, doesn’t understand anything other than the tears, he doesn’t know what to do—he runs outside, he’s looking for someone, for something—and then a car pulls up, a black taxi cab, and he jumps in—and the next thing he knows he’s there, at the abandoned warehouse—and he knows what he has to do—this is it, his chance to save Mary—he can do it this time— 

His phone, he needs to call Lestrade, Mycroft, someone—but he reaches into his coat, and it’s not there, his phone, he doesn’t have it—and now he’s inside a room, he doesn’t even know how he got there—but he’s in a room without a door, concrete walls, concrete floor, and Mary is there, in the chair, a bomb strapped to her chest, a timer with flashing numbers, and she’s not saying anything, she’s just staring at him as tears fall down her face— 

Sherlock wants to call out to her, to run over her, to save her—but he can’t move, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything—he’s paralyzed—all he can do is watch, as the numbers go down—10—9—8—and Mary still doesn’t say anything, she’s just staring at him with fear in his eyes— 

And suddenly, there’s John, standing behind Mary, staring at Sherlock—and he starts shouting— 

 _Sherlock you have to help her, why aren’t you helping her, what are you doing Sherlock, you can’t let her die, what’s wrong with you Sherlock—_

And Sherlock wants to respond, but his mouth won’t move, his feet still won’t move, and he’s almost out of time— 

—7—6—5— 

John begs him— 

 _Sherlock save her_  

And they’re almost out of time 

4—3—2—1— 

and then the world explodes. 

Sherlock wakes up, in a panic, in a dark room, in Baker Street, and for a moment, he can’t move, still locked in the paralysis of the nightmare, and then finally, he jerks into full consciousness with a gasp, and he desperately reaches for the lamp beside his bed, turns on the light, sits up, and tries to control his breathing, tries to remind himself— 

 _It’s just a dream, It’s just a dream, It’s just a dream_

But of course it isn’t, not really, and that’s what makes it so hard to bear. 

His head still feels like it’s spinning—he’s nauseous, drenched in a cold sweat—and he needs something, anything to control the chaos. 

Instinctively he reaches over to his bedside table, but then he remembers that he’s not in the hospital anymore, and there’s no morphine drip or hidden syringe within his reach. 

 _Somewhere, somewhere he must have something somewhere._  

Desperately, he searches through his bedside drawer, finds nothing, then—ignoring the sharp pains that the motions cause—he shoves himself up and out of bed, and then drags himself over to the closet, where he kneels down on the floor and begins tearing through that as well—checking the loose floor board, every pair of shoes, his lucky pair of socks, his second best dressing gown, then he goes and searches under the mattress, and in his drawers, and then he rips the periodic table off the wall so that he can search his secret hiding place in the wall behind it. 

But he turns up nothing. There’s no relief to be found anywhere. 

That anxious, desperate feeling is still there, and now that the initial rush of adrenaline has faded, he’s acutely aware of all the ways in which his body hurts. The unused muscles—the recent surgery—the not yet faded bumps and bruising—he could ignore them at first, but now they’re screaming for attention, vying with the panic that still grips him as he gasps for breath, his heart racing, and all he can hold onto is the desperate need for relief and the conviction that it must be here, somewhere. 

In a last ditch effort, he goes back and begins rooting through his closet once more. He’s so immersed in his search that he doesn’t hear the knock on his door, and he isn’t aware of John entering his room until he hears— 

“What the bloody hell are you doing?”  
  
Sherlock jumps up and bangs his head on a low hanging shelf. Rubbing the back of his—now sore—head, he turns around to face John, who is looking at him with a mixture of concern and confusion and maybe the barest hint of amusement.  
  
“All right there?”  
  
“I’m _fine._ ” 

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.” 

“Still pretending to be my mother, are you?”  
  
“No, just your friend.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Let’s get you back into bed.”  
  
Usually Sherlock would protest, but he realizes that his whole body is shaking from the recent strain, so he silently lets John slip an arm around his waist and carefully guide him across the room, and then assist him as he eases himself down onto the bed. 

Once Sherlock is settled back onto the bed, John asks, “Did you lose something?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Were you looking for something?”  
  
Sherlock wasn’t about to say, _yes, my secret and apparently non existent heroin stash_ , so instead he goes with—  
  
“Cigarettes.”  
  
Disapprovingly, John shakes his head. “No way, Sherlock. You’re still recovering from major surgery. Cigarettes are the lastthing you need.”  
  
Sherlock just shrugs his shoulders. 

“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“I would feel better if you let me check you over.”  
  
“Is that really necessary?”  
  
“Yes, it is. Unless you want me to call Mycroft and tell him that you need to go back to hospital—” 

“Fine, let’s play doctor if that makes you feel better.”  
  
John rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything in response as he quickly checks Sherlock over.  
  
After satisfying himself that Sherlock’s night time excursion didn’t do any serious damage, John helps Sherlock get under the covers and asks, “Is there anything I can get for you? An ice pack, maybe? Or some water?”  
  
“I’m fine, although some morphine might help.”  
  
“Sherlock, we’ve been over this. You’ve already had you max dose for the night.’  
  
“In that case, no, I don’t need or want anything from you.” 

John ignores Sherlock’s petulant tone, and says, “Think you can get back to sleep? It’s only 3 am.”  
  
The answer to that is a resounding no, but Sherlock says, “I suppose.”  
  
“Good. I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”  
  
With that, John leaves, turning out the light and closing the door behind him. 

Alone again in the now dark room, Sherlock sits on the bed with his head in his hands. Part of him—a desperate part of him—wants to pick up his phone and send a message to Bill Wiggins. Hell, part of him wants to sneak out the window and go find Billy himself. 

But he can’t—he won’t—he promised himself that he wouldn’t do that again, not with John back in Baker Street. 

Besides, he doesn’t _need_ the drugs. Of course he doesn’t. The drugs were only there as a distraction, a diversion—but he’s not an addict. He doesn’t need drugs to escape, to cope, to survive. 

Especially not for a few bad dreams. 

Still, it would be so much easier—and he is so tired—and he hurts, he does. It’s not just the emotional angst. He’s in physical pain too. After all, he did get blown up and then nearly strangled to death by— 

 _No no no no no no no no_

Now is not the time to think about that, any of that. 

He takes a deep breath, sits up more fully, and then carefully eases himself back down into the bed, lying on his side—even though the pressure on his ribs hurts, even though it makes it slightly difficult to breather—but this way he can see the periodic table on his wall, and he finds it soothing, more soothing than staring at the ceilings, at least, and even the pain is grounding—it keeps his thoughts from wandering to the recent past—keeps him from thinking of the dream—of the fear of losing John—imaging what it would be like to find John in Mary’s place, to have lost him—how hard it is to fear—to know—that he could lose John at any time—that he could be gone, just like— 

He sits up abruptly, so sharply that he gasps involuntarily at the pain from his midsection, and he doubles over at the waist, breathing in short quick breaths, as the combination of panic and pain threatens to overwhelm him. 

It’s too much, all of it, more than he can bear, he can’t handle it, not like this, not without something, something to take the edge off, he just can’t—he _needs_ it. 

Without thinking, he reaches towards his mobile phone that sits unassumingly on his bedside table. It’s in his hand and the text screen is open before he even knows what he’s done—and when he looks down, he sees the string of texts, orders from him to Billy— 

_Come at once_

_Bart’s_

_Be discreet_

_Bring the usual_

He could curse himself for ever providing Billy with a mobile phone. It seemed prudent after what happened, with the ongoing investigation, the need for discretion, but now— 

His thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of the floor boards creaking above his head. 

Probably just the sound of John rolling over in bed—he always has been a restless sleeper, and it’s the curse of the old flat that there’s very little quiet—although it was always comforting in a way, to have that reminder, to know someone else was there— 

And now, now it’s enough to shake him out of it, because what would John think if he knew what Sherlock had done, was planning on doing? Would he stick around if he knew that Sherlock was using again?  
  
Without even thinking, Sherlock pushes himself up out of bed—mobile phone still in his hand—drags himself over to the window, opens it up, and then throws the phone down to the street below. 

He hears it land with a satisfying crunch as glass meets pavement, and then he closes the window, gets back in bed, shuts his eyes, and counts the digits of pi to try to get back to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock! He's definitely experiencing some major fallout from his recent traumatic experiences, and we'll see a lot of this come to a major breaking point in the next couple chapters. Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, I haven't forgotten about all the major plot points with Mary and her father and all of that. I'll deal with that eventually, but first Sherlock needs to get patched up a bit more. I hope to get Chapter 14 (tentatively titled "No Rest for the Weary") posted by this weekend.


	14. No Rest for the Weary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter that we’ve been building to for awhile, and I’m very excited to get it posted. Get ready for some major angst and H/C. Enjoy…

The next day, Sherlock and John are silently eating lunch—food courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, who has insisted on providing them with a veritable feast for each meal—when John gets a call on his mobile phone.

John starts to get up from the table to answer it, but Sherlock says, “Don’t bother. It’s probably Mycroft.” 

“How do you know?”  
  
 Sherlock shrugs, and John gets up to check his phone anyway. 

The phone has stopped ringing by that point, but there’s a text and a voicemail waiting for him.

John says, “Yeah, it was your brother.” 

John then proceeds to read the text out loud.

_Can’t reach Sherlock’s mobile phone. I expect progress report in the next ten minutes or I’ll be sending over an ambulance and a police detail. -MH_  

After firing a quick text response to Mycroft, John says to Sherlock, “What’s wrong with your mobile phone?”  
  
And Sherlock responds with, “I lost it,” because he had no intention of telling John the truth.

 

 

 

That night, John is sleeping peacefully in his bed one moment and then the next instant he’s wide awake. At first he isn’t sure what woke him, but he has never managed to shed the soldier’s reflex of waking—dead asleep to completely lucid in an instant—so before he even spares it a second thought, he is already out of bed, every sense on high alert. 

He hears shouting, and a moment later identifies the voice as Sherlock’s, so grabs his gun from his bedside table, loads the bullets—he never leaves it loaded when he’s sleeping—always the chance of someone surprising him out of sleep, and ending up getting shot.  
  
As quietly—but quickly—as possible, he goes down the stairs, all the while looking for signs of a break in, but he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and for a few moments there are no sounds from Sherlock either, but then he hears more shouting, and now he is close enough to make out the words— 

_Mary—no, god—Mary—please—I’m so sorry—John—he—_  

It’s like suddenly being submerged in cold water. 

He’s no longer a soldier. Now he just feels oddly detached from the scene that is starting to unfold. Even without opening the door, he can tell that Sherlock is suffering from some sort nightmare—night terror, possibly—and the anguish is clear even with a solid wood door separating them.

And yet, for all of that, John still finds himself tempted to turn around, go back up the stairs, and leave Sherlock to deal with this himself. 

He’s filled with shame as soon as the idea crosses his mind so rather than running, he knocks on the door a couple times, tries to call out to Sherlock in a voice that won’t betray the turmoil he’s feeling— 

“Sherlock? I’m going to come in now, okay?” 

He doesn’t get a response, but he didn’t really expect one. All he hears on the other side is— 

_I’m sorry—please just give me more time—take me instead—John will—John—Mary, don’t die, don’t be dead—please—_  

And then he opens the door, because he can’t bear to listen to another word.

 He sees Sherlock, in bed—covers thrown off, his face shining with sweat— 

“Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me? It’s John. Sherlock, you have to wake up.” 

And so he reaches over, but before he can make contact, Sherlock’s eyes open wide—his pupils dilated, unseeing—but a moment later he finds himself. 

“John?” 

“Yeah, it’s just me. You were having a bit of a nightmare—“ 

But before he can finish, Sherlock has thrown himself out of bed, and run out of the room, clearly fueled by enough adrenaline to ignore all his recent injuries. 

John is too bewildered at first to know how to respond or what to expect, but he hears a door slam followed by the sounds of retching—painful, violent—that morph into muffled, strangled sobs, and then a moment of silence, followed by a loud thump, the sound of a fist hitting something solid. 

John hadn’t realized up until this very moment that he there was still a small part of him that had remained angry at Sherlock for what happened—even knowing how pointless, misguided, and poisonous that anger is. It’s only now, as he listens to his best friend falling apart on the other side of the bathroom door that he feels the last vestiges of anger wither away into nothing. 

It leaves behind a hollow, gaping hole in his chest.   

He feels paralyzed, as he waits, unsure of what to do. Sherlock would hate the intrusion, probably wants nothing more to be alone, but is that what Sherlock needs? It’s so hard, sometimes, to know whether to listen to Sherlock’s wishes or ignore them for his own sake. 

But when no more sounds come from the other side of the hall, John’s concerns get the best of him, and he forces himself to make his way to the bathroom. 

When he gets to the door, he knocks on it loudly. “Sherlock, open the door.” 

After getting no response, he begs, “Please, let me come in.”

The silence stretches a little longer before he hears on the other side, “It’s open.”  
  
Probably should have checked that first.  
  
When John opens the door, he sees Sherlock slumped against the wall, staring—with his eyes unfocused—at the floor, cradling his right hand against his chest. 

Remembering the loud thump of bone hitting something solid just moments ago, John asks, “Wall or the floor?”  
  
“Wall. Better angle.” 

John continues to stand for several long seconds, unsure of what to say or what to do. For his part, Sherlock continues to stare at the floor, taking in sharp, labored breaths as he fights to regain his composure. 

Once he realizes Sherlock won’t be moving any time soon, John eases himself onto the floor as well, right next to Sherlock. It’s a tight fit, and they’re forced to sit shoulder to shoulder in order to cram into the small space, but it’s almost a relief to have the physical contact, to know that Sherlock is still alive and breathing. 

He’s clearly still in bad shape—his skin is unnaturally pale and weeks of poor eating have left him frighteningly thin.  
  
Wanting to help dispel the silence, John asks, “Can I see your hand?”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t respond but he doesn’t fight when John reaches over and gently takes Sherlock’s right hand in his. 

John carefully runs his fingers with light pressure over the knuckles—the swelling is already starting, and the bruising has yet to completely fade from Sherlock’s earlier injuries. 

“Doesn’t seem like you did any serious damage, but if you keep punching things, I might have to make you wear boxing gloves around the flat.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches the tiniest bit, but that’s the only indication that Sherlock heard John’s joke. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head, and it’s nothing other than what John expected, but then, almost despite himself, Sherlock starts to speak, his voice low and strained. 

“Even in the nightmares, I always try—I try to save her. Every time, I beg them to take her and not me, but every time, I fail. And she dies. I’ve re-lived that moment so many times, and still, I can’t find a way out of it.” 

John does his best to remain impassive, even as he feels a deep ache at Sherlock’s words. Tears begin to prick at the corner of his eyes, his throat’s tight—the loss is still so fresh, still so painful, and he feels too overwhelmed to try to formulate a response. 

The spiral of his thoughts are interrupted when Sherlock says, with feeling, “I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”  
  
That’s enough to stir John out of his own grief. And he means it, completely and without reservation, when he says, “It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock. You have nothing to apologize for—you did everything you possibly could.”  
  
“It wasn’t enough.” 

“I know. But that doesn’t make it your fault.” 

Sherlock’s head slumps over onto John’s shoulder, almost involuntarily as if he just can’t manage to hold it up any longer—in fact his entire body seems to give itself over to gravity, as John feels the weight pressing up against him grow heavier. Sherlock seems so lost to the world that he probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. 

Even more quietly this times, Sherlock says, “I would have done anything to save her. Absolutely anything to save her, and to save you the pain of losing her. I hope you know that.”  
  
“Of course, I know that. I shouldn’t—I never should have blamed you in the first place. I was a complete dickhead. It was never your fault.”  
  
As if he hasn’t heard what John says, Sherlock continues, “The guilt, it eats away at me. I feel like every day that passes, I lose another tiny piece of myself.” 

That admission, the way Sherlock says it, is heartbreaking. “God, Sherlock, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t. I promise.”  
  
“I should have done more—Maybe if I had—”

“You did everything you could. No one else could have expected anything else.”  
  
Sherlock’s voice is strangled as he chokes out, “Then why did she die?” 

Those words are like a punch in the gut, and without even thinking, John turns his body slightly so that he can wrap his right arm around Sherlock’s bony shoulders. John can feel the slight tremor passing through his friend’s body, and at first Sherlock stiffens as John pulls him closer—but Sherlock doesn’t try to pull away, in fact, a moment later his body goes completely limp as John pulls Sherlock even tighter, and whispers quietly, over and over— 

“It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t, I promise, there was nothing you could do, it wasn’t your fault.”

John can feel Sherlock shaking his head, as he says in a muffled, nearly incoherent voice, “There had to have been something—there must have been a way—I tried so hard to save her—I would have done anything—if only I could go back—I never—I should have—” 

“Sherlock, listen to me, it wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.”

Sherlock takes in several sharp, gasping breaths as he fights to regain his composure, as visions flash into his mind—a mix of images from his nightmares, and memories from that day—of Mary, of all the blood, the terror, the fear, the realization that it was too late—and the desperate hurt he felt when after all of that, John blamed him—just as Sherlock blamed himself. 

In attempt to re-direct his thoughts, Sherlock sits up a little straighter and says in as even a tone as he can manage, “I don’t know why this keeps happening.”  
  
“This has happened before?”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t answer, at first, but finally he admits, “I have the nightmares almost every night, at least on the nights when I get to sleep. Some nights are worse than others. And sometimes even during the day—I just can’t escape it.” 

“What you went through Sherlock—I can’t even imagine. It’s only natural—” 

“No it’s not! I should be able to delete it, forget about it, bury it—and I’ve tried, over and over, but it never stays buried.” 

“This kind of thing, you can’t just forget.” 

“Why not?”  
  
“Because that’s not how trauma works.”  
  
Wryly, Sherlock asks, “Is that your professional medical opinion?”  
  
“It’s my opinion as someone who experienced trauma.”

“This is different.”  
  
“Why? Because you’re the world’s only consulting detective?”  
  
Without rising to the bait, Sherlock responds, “You were saving a life and fighting a war.”  
  
“Sherlock, you were trying—” 

“I swore to protect her—and you—no matter what the cost.” 

“It wasn’t your fault. I know that now even if I didn’t before, and I’m happy to keep saying that until you finally believe me.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but John senses that they’re only going in circles with this conversation, so in an attempt to distract Sherlock, he asks, “How are you feeling?”  
  
“I thought that was fairly obvious given the fact that I just put on an emotional display worthy of Anderson.”  
  
John smiles slightly at attempted humor, and says, “No I meant—I need to make sure you didn’t tear your stitches.” 

Sherlock seems so relieved to avoid any more emotional discussions that he doesn’t object in the slightest when John lifts up his shirt to examine the sutures and carefully palpate his abdomen.  
  
The wounds are tender as John expected them to be, but thankfully no signs of infection are present and all the sutures remain intact despite Sherlock’s violent outburst tonight. 

With his examination completely, John asks, “Do you think you can get up?”  
  
“I’m perfectly all right on the floor.” 

John rolls his eyes, as he stands up himself and then reaches down to help pick Sherlock up off the floor.                                                                                                 

Once Sherlock is upright, John says, “Let’s get you back to bed.”  
  
“I won’t be able to sleep.”

“You really should at least try.” 

“Please, John, I—”

Sherlock swallows, before continuing, “I can’t spend the rest of the night lying in bed staring into the darkness. Please.”  
  
John takes it all in—the unusual earnestness and desperation in Sherlock’s voice, the way his body is shaking, clearly on the verge of giving out—and comes to a decision.  
  
“Why don’t you rest on the hospital bed in the living room? We can get a fire going, maybe even watch some telly.”  
  
“You don’t have to stay with me.”  
  
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to.” 

Sherlock responds with a quiet but heartfelt and completely uncharacteristic, “Thank you,” before practically collapsing from exhaustion. John has to half-carry and half drag Sherlock down the hall, until he can finally deposit him safely on the hospital bed.

Then, John grabs the remote, sits in his chair, and turns on the TV, while Sherlock lies in bed, curled up on his side as best as his battered body will allow.

When John looks over at Sherlock twenty minutes later, he’s relieved to see that Sherlock has drifted off to sleep. For his part, John spends the rest of the night in that chair, staring blankly at the TV, waiting for dawn to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did my best in this chapter to keep both characters, especially Sherlock, as in character as possible, even though this is a side of them that we don’t see much of in the show. While Sherlock often doesn’t let his human side show, I feel like the combination of witnessing Mary’s death, knowing that he failed to save her, and then dealing with John’s reaction would be enough to push him into this emotionally vulnerable place, and that’s one of the things I really wanted to explore in this story. Hopefully it worked out okay! 
> 
> In the next chapter, which is already mostly written, we’ll revisit Sherlock’s earlier drug relapse. I hope to get it posted by next weekend.
> 
> If you have a moment, I would love to hear what you thought of this latest installment :)


	15. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, it's a two chapter weekend! Chapter 15 just kept getting longer and longer, so I've decided to break it up into two (and it might even end up being three) chapters, and I figured I might as well post this chapter. Enjoy!

  
At some point after sunrise, John must have dozed off, because when he wakes up, the hospital bed in the living room is empty. 

In his half-awake, sleep-deprived state, his first instinct is to panic. All the thoughts are absurd, of course, but he can’t help the creeping anxiety that grips him, as his mind jumps to— 

 _Where has Sherlock gone? Did he run away? Did someone break into the flat? Did he get taken back to the hospital? How could he—_

But his thoughts are interrupted a moment later when he hears movement in the back of the house, and so he calls out, “Sherlock?”

To his great relief, the response comes back almost immediately, “I’ll be out in a minute.”  
  
True to his word, Sherlock emerges from the toilet, recently showered, and dressed in new clothes.

John jumps to his feet and says, “You should have woken me before showering, Sherlock. You could have fallen and hurt yourself or passed out, or—” 

“I’m not a total invalid.”  
  
“I’m not saying you are. I’m just concerned.” 

Suddenly growing irritable, Sherlock says, “I don’t need your concern.”  
  
Sensing a new equilibrium, John ventures cautiously, “Is this about last night?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“I just thought—you seem—I—” 

John pauses to gather his thoughts, and then says, “You don’t have to be embarrassed.” 

“I’m not _embarrassed._ ” 

Trying to lighten the mood, John smiles slightly and says, “I know this is a new experience for you, having to deal with emotions like the rest of us—” 

When Sherlock continues to stonewall, John’s tone becomes more earnest, “You don’t have to hide what you’re going through from me.” 

Choosing his words carefully, and speaking in an unusually formal voice, Sherlock says, “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. A repeat of last night’s episode will not happen again. I apologize for disturbing you.” 

“You don’t need to apologize. I _want_ to help. I just wish you had come to me sooner.” 

Sherlock is about to respond, but then his overtired body betrays him, as his knees buckle, but John is there to keep him from falling, and without words, they both slowly make their way to the living room, with John supporting Sherlock’s weight the whole way.

  

 

 

When Sherlock awoke that morning, John was dozing in the armchair, and for one blessed second, Sherlock couldn’t remember how they came to this particular arrangement, but almost immediately, the memories hit him full force, and it made him want to crawl out of his skin. 

 _How could he have been so emotional, so pathetic? What will John think of him now? Will they force him to see a therapist? Try to commit him? Ship him off to the psych ward?_

Sherlock shakes his head, trying to dispel those thoughts and fears. 

Still, it was a relief, to get a few hours of blissful sleep that were not haunted by night terrors, by memories of bombs and Mary and John and Vanya and death and hopelessness, futility— 

He notices his breathing quicken and his pulse sky rocket, and so he mutters quietly to himself, “Get a grip.”

He looks in John’s direction, but John is sleeping peacefully, eyes closed, mouth open slightly.

For one unguarded moment, Sherlock feels a sense of peace come over him. He’s more rested than he’s felt in days and comforted by John’s unguarded presence. 

But then he thinks back to last night, and the memory makes him almost physically ill. 

 _How could he have let himself be so emotional? So overwrought?_  

Suddenly, being in the hospital bed, in the same room as John, feels oppressive, and so he throws his legs over the side of the bed, forcing himself to stand up. His legs are shaky, but he does manage it. Then, he carefully makes his way to out of the living room, down the hall, in the direction of his bedroom. 

When he’s halfway to his room, he hears it—a loud bang—and he instinctively throws himself onto the floor, looking around desperately, his heart rate skyrocketing, as he gasps for breath— 

But then all he hears are soft voices below and the sound of footsteps on metal, and he realizes that the noise was nothing more than the workers loudly opening the back end of the lorry that delivers supplies to Speedy’s Sandwich Shop every morning. 

It’s a sound that he’s heard so often through the years, and in fact, John has slept through it completely. 

Even when he realizes the true origins of the sound, Sherlock still feels completely undone. It's as if he’s completely detached from himself, as if he’s on the outside looking in, observing his own mental breakdown, and it’s almost like none of this is real—as if it’s all one giant joke, an absurdity—a farce.

How could he, Sherlock Holmes, come to this? How could he be so irrational, so emotional—so afraid? 

Because he is afraid. Even as the detachment gives him some separation from his own visceral fear, he can still sense his increased heart rate, his labored breathing, but he tries to tell himself— 

 _Don’t be silly, you’re being absurd, it’s not real, none of this is real, get over it, ignore it, get a grip, stop this at once_

But he can’t—he can’t control it, and suddenly he realizes that he’s still on the floor, on his hands and knees, and he’s filled with shame at the thought that John could wake up and see him like this, so he pushes himself up, using the nearest door handle for leverage, and once he’s standing up he opens the door to the bath, and launches himself into the room only to find himself face to face with his own reflection in the mirror, and it stops him in his tracks. 

He’s shocked at how pale and drawn he looks—the bags under his eyes, the gray tinge to his skin, the gauntness of his face—and for one crazed, irrational instant he wonders if he’s already dead. 

But then a moment later he chides himself for being so absurd— 

_Stupid, don’t be so stupid, get a grip, stop being stupid_

But still, he can’t help but feel that he’s looking at someone other than himself—that this isn’t him, this isn’t real, none of this is real—and what a relief that would be if all of this were a dream, one horrible, wretched nightmare—a nightmare that he could wake up from at any moment, and everything would be the way it once was. 

But then when he looks down at his hands—battered and bruised as they are—and as he focuses on the shooting pains and overwhelming ache that seems to pervade every inch of his body, he knows that this isn’t a dream, this has to be real—painfully, inescapably, suffocatingly real. 

He feels like he could drown under the weight of all these desperate, overwhelming emotions, and it makes him want to tear off his own skin, so he throws off his dressing gown, strips off his shirt, and then turns on the water—half falling, half stepping into the tub—until he’s under the ice cold water.

It’s like a shock to the system—suddenly being submerged—but it helps bring him back to himself, and as the water rains down on him, he finally feels like he can breathe, and by the time he’s been under the water for a good ten, fifteen minutes, he no longer feels like he’s detached from his own body, no longer feels like an outsider to himself, and with that shift in perception, he suddenly becomes aware that he’s shivering from the cold, and as he reaches to turn the water from cold to hot, he looks down and realizes that he got into the shower without ever taking off his pants.

 

 

 

After he emerges from the shower and makes his way to the hospital bed with John’s aid—which in and of itself fills him with shame, because he can’t even walk freely in his own flat without feeling like an invalid—he lies down as John goes to wash up before breakfast. 

Sherlock stares up at the ceiling as he listens to the sound of the water running, and even though his body is not moving, his mind is racing, as he searches for an answer, for a solution, because he can’t keep doing this—he has to find someway, somehow to get a grip on his unruly, overwhelming, nearly unbearable emotional turmoil.

What can he do, how can he find a way to control this storm inside of him? 

It’s so new, so unwelcome, and nothing seems to help, nothing works.

Except the drugs. They were the one thing, the one thing that took away his pain, that gave him peace— 

His thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of John’s mobile, which is on the end table where John left it. Without thinking, Sherlock reaches over, looks at the phone, and sees— 

 _Awaiting your morning progress report. Please respond within the hour. –MH_

Sherlock’s childish instinct is to delete the text message from his meddling older brother, but before he can do that, a more powerful urge overwhelms him. 

He still hasn’t gotten a replacement for his phone—after all, Mycroft, Lestrade, everyone just texts John to check up on him—but he doesn’t need his phone to get the drugs if he can use John’s. 

There’s a part of him that resists, that knows this isn’t the answer, but he ignores that internal voice, as he quickly types a text message to Wiggins— 

 _Using John’s mobile. Do not respond to this number. Pick up double the usual, then wait in the back alley behind Baker Street for my signal. -SH_  

As soon as he sends the message, he deletes it. After all, John can never know—he can never know how far Sherlock has fallen or what he’s had to do to keep himself from cracking up completely.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we didn’t get much John/Sherlock interaction in this chapter, but I wanted to take some time to explore the fall out from chapter 14, as well as delve into Sherlock’s PTSD response. One of the symptoms (aside from flashbacks) that Sherlock experiences here is called “Depersonalization” which is a common reaction to extreme stress/trauma. Depersonalization basically describes the experience of feeling divorced from your own body/emotions/etc, and I did my best to capture that here. (Okay, I’m taking off my armchair psychologist hat now…)
> 
> Anyway, I hope the structure of this chapter isn’t confusing with the middle part jumping back in time, but it just felt right to structure it this way. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I’m still aiming to get Chapter 16 up by next weekend.
> 
> \--
> 
> Just a side note: I’m from the US, which is why I stick with US spellings like color, apologize, etc, but I do try to work in British terminology where it seems natural for some semblance of verisimilitude. (If you notice any obvious Americanisms that I’ve missed, feel free to let me know.) I also just love the finer points of language and grammar, so I enjoy learning about variations within British and American English.
> 
> This all brings me to my question to any UK readers: In this particular chapter when Sherlock gets in the shower without fully undressing, I’m curious, would it be appropriate to use the word trousers for something that you sleep in? In the US, we have the word sweatpants for something you might work out in or wear around the house, but I don’t know if there’s a different word in the UK. I guess pajamas also works, but I ended up just using pants because I figured either connation (the US meaning or the British meaning*) worked in this chapter.
> 
> *Incidentally, the first time I watched Scandal in Belgravia, I didn’t realize that John’s “Are you wearing any pants?” meant underwear since I’m used to pants referring to trousers. Definitely changes things a bit…
> 
> (Okay, sorry for the longest author's not ever.)


	16. Old Habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 16 picks up immediately where Chapter 15 left off. Enjoy!

  
Sherlock knows that before he can get his delivery from Wiggins, he needs to find a way to get John out of the flat, a task which is made difficult by the fact that John seems committed to never leaving Sherlock’s side.

This kind of loyalty and closeness—if he’s completely honest with himself, it’s what he desperately missed during those early days—that turned into weeks—in the hospital. He would fantasize about a universe in which John forgave him and returned to his side—a universe in which John didn’t hate him and didn’t blame him. 

And yet, now he has that, and it’s just not enough. He needs the relief. He has to have it, and that’s why he has no choice but to give in to the temptation.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

 

 

His opportunity to get John out of the flat presents itself a few hours later, when John looks at his watch and says, “Looks like we’re long overdue for lunch.”  
  
Reflexively, Sherlock says, “Not hungry.”

“You’ll have to eat something anyway. What do you feel like?”

“Nothing.”  
  
Despite Sherlock’s protests, John gets to his feet and goes to kitchen.

“Unfortunately we don’t have much to choose from. Mrs. Hudson is over at Mrs. Turner’s for tea, and I haven’t been to the market in ages.”

John does some digging around in the kitchen before saying, “We have a wide selection of—well, I’m not even sure I want to know why you have a collection of toes in the fridge.”

After another couple minutes, John asks, “Sherlock, were you doing mold experiments in the fridge?”

Despite his generally dour mood, Sherlock smiles a bit to himself at the expression of disgust that is sure to be on John's face as he takes stock of the fridge. All he says in response is, "No not that I can recall.”

John emerges from the kitchen and says, “I think that fridge is long overdue for a clean up, and we're running low on supplies. It looks like we have one can of soup and some crackers.”

“Boring.”

“Are you up for eating something else if I go to the market?”  
  
Sherlock prepares to dismiss the idea, and then he realizes—this is the perfect opportunity.  
  
So, he says, casually, “I suppose I could be persuaded to eat sandwiches as long as they have the right brand of deli meat available. Ah, and make sure to get the sandwich rolls without sesame seeds. Should probably get some fresh lettuce too.”  
  
John looks so pleased at Sherlock’s sudden interest in food, that Sherlock is stricken with a sense of guilt so strong that it’s beyond almost anything he’s experienced before.  
  
Guilt—it’s not an emotion he’s accustomed to feeling, at least not for this kind of minor lie and subterfuge, and yet he’s so overwhelmed with it, that he almost confesses the whole thing right then and there.

But before he can say a word, John says, “Let me write this down. We don’t all have your mind palace.”  
  
Once he has a pad and writing implement, John jots everything down and asks, “Anything else?”

Sherlock fights with himself before deciding, in for a penny, in for a pound.  
  
“Bacon and eggs for breakfast, biscuits for tea, and maybe a bag of crisps.” 

“Is that it?”  
  
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, and says, “Whatever else you see fit to purchase.”  
  
John nods, thinks for a moment, and jots a few more things down. Then, he goes out of the room, grabs his coat and trainers, says, “Do you need anything before I leave?”

“Nope.”  
  
John hesitates, and then says, “Take it easy and watch some TV while I’m gone, okay?”  
  
Impatiently Sherlock says, “Yes, yes I promise to be a model invalid in your absence.”  
  
John ignores Sherlock’s sarcastic comment, and simply says, “I’ll be back in a bit,”  and then he’s gone.

Sherlock listens carefully as John walks down the stairs and out the front door, shutting it behind him.

He waits an additional five minutes to ensure that John won’t rush in having forgotten his wallet or keys as he is so often inclined to do. 

Eventually, Sherlock sits up slowly—last night’s episode has left him both emotionally raw and physically pained. He carefully stands up, and then makes his way towards his room, using the wall for support.

When he gets to his room, he makes his way to the window, and then opens it, a task that is far more difficult than it should be.

He spots Wiggins in the back alley, hoodie covering his head, and Sherlock says, loudly enough for Wiggins to hear, “Billy, come upstairs quickly.”

In response, Wiggins looks up and says, “Sure thing, Shezza.”

Sherlock then reaches into his dressing gown, and tosses a key in Wiggins direction. “Use this key.”

Once Wiggins starts walking towards Baker Street from the alleyway, Sherlock lets himself collapse onto the floor, breathing heavily, for once not out of fear or anxiety, but simple exhaustion.

As soon as Wiggins delivers the package, Sherlock dismisses him and then immediately takes out the needle, finds the vein, and injects the drugs into his bloodstream.

It doesn’t take long for the heroin to kick in, and he lets out a sigh of relief as the pain recedes further into the background and the beating of his heart slows to a more manageable pace.

At the same time, even as he revels in the peace and brief respite from pain, he can’t ignore the guilt—about John, what John would say, what John would think—and he’s filled with disgust at all the ways that his body and mind have betrayed him.

 

 

The next several days are filled with the ebb and flow of his continued drug use, the fear of John finding out, alternating with that the nervous, uneasy, desperate need to get his fix, the relief that comes, and then the shame that immediately follows.

In a way, almost nothing has changed. John and Sherlock find a way to occupy the many hours of the day, until late hours of the night, when Sherlock gives in and agrees to go to sleep.

And as happened almost every single night since Mary's death, after a few brief hours of sleep, Sherlock wakes from a horrific nightmare, gasping for breath, fighting with his out of control adrenaline response, trying to take slow, even breaths, as images flash through his mind, memories from that day, from the nightmare, from all the many nightmares that he’s had.

Although he would never admit it, for a moment, there is a small part of that is disappointed that John is nowhere to be seen, but then immediately he dismisses that thought.

He doesn't need John, especially not now, when there’s something he can do. Now he doesn’t have to sit with these feelings.  
  
He’s so desperate for relief that he doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t even think to check for sounds that John might be awake—before he reaches into his bedside drawer and removes the decorative box that he uses to conceal the supply that he keeps on hand for this kind of late night need.

It’s impossible to ignore the way his hands are shaking as he opens the box and takes out the syringe. He whispers to himself, to his traitorous body and brain, _Calm down_ , and then he takes a deep breath, before sliding the needle into his vein 

In the instant before he depress the plunger, the thought flickers in his brain for a moment, just for a moment—what if he took just a little bit _too_ much, enough so that he could close his eyes and never have to suffer like this again?

As soon as the notion enters his mind, he recoils in horror.

He might be self destructive, he might be reckless and careless and willing to risk his life for the rush, but he’s not _suicidal_. He doesn’t want to die.

Right?

No, of course not. But the fact that he would even consider that, even if only for an instant, the fact that there was some kind of temptation, even a flicker of desire—

It’s not that he wants to die, but the promise of  relief—from all the pain, from all the memories, from all the drudgeries—no more nightmares, no more haunted moments, no more soul crushing, all encompassing guilt.

The guilt—it’s about Mary, of course, the fact that he couldn’t save her despite everything—but now it’s more than that. 

Every time he sees John, everything that John does—he’s always there, always caring, always helping—and Sherlock can’t help but feel guilt because John would be horrified if he knew about Sherlock’s relapse.  
  
After all, he nearly threw Sherlock out a window when he found him with all the other junkies at the beginning of the Magnusson business.

But this is even worse, because there’s no case, no excuse.

This is just about pain and the drugs and the fear and the desperation.

On the one hand, Sherlock knows that he has to tell John—after all, John is here around the clock most days, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds out.

But then—what will happen after that?  
  
Sherlock already knows the answer. John will leave. He’ll be furious, he’ll yell, and then he’ll be gone. 

But if it’s going to happen sooner or later, maybe it’s better to let it be now. That way, John can disappear, just like he always was going to, and Sherlock can be alone, with his pain, with his misery, and with the drugs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between chapters. I've been tied up with work and other stuff, but I really wanted to just get this posted, so I didn't do as much editing as I have for other chapters. Hopefully, it still turned out okay.
> 
> I know this was a somewhat dark and depressing chapter, plus I through in a sort of cliffhanger there at the end. The next chapter, tentatively titled "Coming Clean," is almost done, so I should be able to post it very soon. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and stay tuned!


	17. Coming Clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read and commented on the story so far! I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

 

Sherlock spends all morning silently fighting a war within himself. 

It seemed so obvious in the dark hours of the night that he had to tell John, that there was no other option.  
  
But then, in the light of day, it seems so much easier just to ignore that fit of conscience. He tells himself—

 _I can handle this, I need this, it’s only temporary, only until the pain goes away, John never has to know_  

And yet, he hardly believes those words any more.

John senses the shift in Sherlock’s mood, but he doesn’t say anything, and he spends the morning watching TV as Sherlock stares at the ceiling, ignoring the rest of the world around him, fighting this battle inside of himself.

  

 

 

In the afternoon, after they have eaten their lunch, as they sit in the living room once again mindlessly watching TV, Sherlock finally manages to get out the words—

“John, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Immediately, John turns off the TV, looks at Sherlock with mild concern, and says, “Yeah, okay. Is something wrong?”

Sherlock forces himself to speak, and he does his best to keep his voice and tone controlled.

“I never should have agreed to this arrangement, at least not without telling you about certain events that transpired in your absence.”  
  
“Sherlock, what are you talking—”

Sherlock holds up a hand to stop John midsentence, “Please, let me finish.”  
  
John nods, and Sherlock continues, “I thought, after everything that happened, I had lost your friendship forever, and with that knowledge, I convinced myself that it no longer mattered whether or not I fell back into old habits.”

Not wanting to trust his gut feeling, John asks, “What do you mean, by ‘old habits’?”

Sherlock snaps back, “I don’t know John, why not use your powers of deduction?”

John stands up and starts pacing. “Don’t screw with me Sherlock, not about this. Just talk to me, like a normal human being.”

“Neither of us is normal, and there are many people who would say I’m not human.”

“Damn it, Sherlock—”

“Drugs. I started using again.”

At those words, John stops pacing and sits down heavily in his chair. He presses his palms up against his face and takes a long deep breath, before dropping his hands into his lap and asking—

“When did it start?”

“I don’t know.”  
  
“Of course you know. You know everything.”

“Your hyperbolic assessment of my talents notwithstanding, I suppose what I mean is that it’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when it went from medication to abuse.”

“If you started administering intravenous heroin again, then I’m pretty sure that was a start.”

“Yes, well I suppose that was a particular line that was crossed.”

John lets out a tense sigh and scrubs his face with his hands. “Jesus, Sherlock, how could you do this?”

“You weren’t there, and I—”

“So this is my fault? Is that what you’re saying?”  
  
“No, I just—”

John cuts Sherlock off, with another question, “Why? Why after all this time? Why now?”

With a resigned shrug, Sherlock gives a one word answer. “Pain.”  
  
“They had you hooked up to a bloody morphine drip!”  
  
“Sometimes even morphine isn’t enough.”

“Is it because of what happened the other night? You said that it’s happened before—”

Sherlock looks increasingly uncomfortable with the direction that this conversation is taking, but he forces himself to answer, “Yes I believe those _difficulties_ played a role. I tried to ignore it, to push past it—”

“Sherlock, what you went through—you can’t just delete that. Look at me—I turned into a limping basket case, and I was only shot. You were—”  
  
John notices Sherlock tense up in anticipation of what John is about to say, so instead, John stops before saying the words, _practically blown up_.

Instead, he reaches over and puts his hand on Sherlock’s arm, and squeezes lightly, in what he can only hope is a comforting gesture.  
  
“You’ll get through this, Sherlock. It will take time—”

“But what’s the point? Soon you’ll be gone again, and I’ll be stuck here, wandering the flat like a caged animal, only this time, I’ll be a defective caged animal afraid of my own shadow.”

“It won’t be like that, Sherlock, I promise. We’ll figure out something.”

“How?”

John lets out another sigh, and says, “I don’t know.”

Sherlock takes in John’s tired and defeated expression, and then says, derisively, “Are you happy, John? You said I should come to you. Is this what you wanted?”

“No, Sherlock, of course not. But I am glad you told me.”  
  
“You’re an idiot. That makes no sense.”

“I may be an idiot, but I’m still happy you told me.”  
  
“You don’t look happy.”  
  
“Well of course I’m not _happy_ Sherlock. You just told me that you’ve started using drugs again. How on earth could I be happy about that?”  
  
In a carefully even voice, Sherlock says, “You don’t have to stay, you know. If it’s too much for you, you’re free to leave. You don’t even live here after all.”  
  
“I’m here to take care of you—”

Sharper now, he says, “I neither need nor want your pity. If you’re here out of some misplaced sense of duty—please, just leave. Mycroft can hire someone to come nurse me back to health and make sure I stay trapped in this tiny little flat.”  
  
“But Sherlock, I—” 

“Just go, John.”  
  
“Yeah, okay.”  
  
A part of Sherlock is caught off guard by John’s sudden acquiescence, but he quickly schools his features into a neutral expression.

“Don’t forget to take whatever belongings—”

“I’m not going for good.”  
  
“I thought—”

John shakes his head, emphatically. “I just need some space, to think about all of this. I’ll be back in a few hours. Please don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Sherlock took that comment to be rhetorical, so John presses further. “Please, Sherlock, promise me you won’t do anything impulsive or self destructive.”

With unusual sincerity, Sherlock says, “I promise.”  
  
John lets out a sigh of relief and says, “Thank you,” before he grabs his coat, wallet, and keys, and leaves the flat, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock listens to John’s footsteps going down the stairs, hears the slam of the front door, and then he collapses onto the bed, lying curled up on his side, staring into the fire, and he waits.

 

 

Many hours later, Sherlock is lying on the hospital bed, although now his eyes are closed, his mind somewhere between sleeping and waking, when John opens the door and walks back into the flat. 

Sherlock sits up, slightly disoriented and says, “John?”

“Sorry, to wake you. I—well, I didn’t expect you to be asleep.”

“What are you doing here?” 

“I told you I was coming back. Did you think I was lying?”  
  
“It’s been more than a few hours. I thought you might have changed your mind.”  
  
“No, I—I just needed to take some time to think.”  
  
“And did you?”  
  
“Did I what?”  
  
“Think?”  
  
“Yeah I did.”  
  
“And?”

John takes a deep breath, before he says, “I’d like to have my old room back.”

Sherlock looks uncharacteristically confused. “You’re already staying in your old room.”  
  
“Yeah but I mean—I’d like to move back in for good. Not just until you’re healed up but after that too.” 

Sherlock continues staring blankly, so John keeps talking.  
  
“Look, I know things can never be the way they were before, but I don’t want to be alone anymore, and I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night wondering if you’re using, wondering if you’ve already overdosed.” 

“So you’ve come back to be my keeper?”

“No, you spectacularly brilliant idiot. I’ve come back to be your flatmate and your friend.”  
  
John’s voice turns hesitant. “If you’ll have me that is. I know I’ve been a complete arse, so I would understand if you don’t want me to stay.”

John waits patiently for another few moments as Sherlock considers John’s offer. Eventually, Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

John continues to wait, until finally, Sherlock says, “Fine—but only if you keep up with your share of the cooking and cleaning.”  
  
John lets out a relieved sigh, before saying, “I always did _all_ of the cooking and cleaning.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
John picks up a pillow, and throws it in Sherlock’s direction—not hard and he aims to miss—but it makes Sherlock laugh and John smile, and then they spend the evening watching old murder mysteries, and when Sherlock drifts off, lying down on the hospital bed, John carefully drapes a blanket over him, turns out the light, and then makes his way up to his room.

For the first time in weeks, Sherlock doesn’t have any nightmares that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Finally a little break from the angst-fest. Of course, it's not all sunshine and rainbows front this point on, but at least the two of them are making major progress.
> 
> I'd really love to hear your response to this latest chapter, so any and all comments will be greatly appreciated!
> 
> The next chapter is titled, "Detox," and I hope to have it out in the next week or so.


	18. Detox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait between chapters. Happy reading!

When John gets back to Baker Street having collected the rest of his things from his old flat, Sherlock is sitting in his chair staring out the window.

He doesn’t bother looking in John’s direction as he says, dryly, “Was it really necessary to send Lestrade over for a drugs bust?”

John shrugs. “Just be glad it wasn’t Anderson.”

“Ah yes, I suppose I should be thankful for some small favors.”

After John walks upstairs and deposits the rest of his stuff in his room, he comes back downstairs, where Sherlock is still sitting in the same place.

He looks up as John enters the room, and says carefully, as if he has to force the words out of his mouth, “I’m not sure they found everything.”

“Really? Lestrade said they were very thorough.”

“In a battle between my ability to deceive and Scotland Yard’s competence at investigating, who do you think would win?”

“Right, yeah. So where else should I look?”

John expects Sherlock to deflect or dissemble, but instead he lets out a sigh and says, “Loose brick in the fire place, extra tea pot in the cabinet above the fridge inside the bag of tea leaves, in the hidden safe behind the periodic table in my room—the combination is 1-8-95—in the hollowed out bedpost, inside the left eye socket of the skull, underneath the right couch cushion, and inside my chemistry textbooks.”

Sherlock pauses to think, and the adds, “Ah yes, and in the loose floor board of the fourteenth step.”

“Jesus Christ, what did you do, raid a drug cartel’s stash?”

“I’m not saying that I have you will find drugs in all those places. I don’t remember where I put the rest of it.”

“Wait, you made yourself forget where you hid it?”

Sherlock simply shrugs in response, “I deleted it.”

Before saying anything else, John takes out a piece of paper, and quickly jots down all the places that Sherlock mentioned.

Then he says, “I’ll deal with this later. Let’s eat lunch first.”

Sherlock is about to respond, but John cuts him off.

“I know you’re not hungry, but humor me, and eat something anyway.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
As John eats, Sherlock mostly pushes the food around on his plate. In response, John says, “You need to actually eat the food. Staring at it doesn’t count.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry.”

“I feel nauseous.”

John takes a closer look at Sherlock, and he instinctively reaches over to take Sherlock’s pulse.

Sherlock’s pulse is racing, and besides that, his hands are cold and clammy. It only takes a moment more for John to put the pieces together.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were experiencing withdrawal symptoms?”

“Would it have convinced you to give me more morphine?”

“I’m serious, Sherlock.”

“So am I.”

John gives Sherlock a sharp look, before asking, “Exactly how much heroin were you injecting?”

“Not that much.”

“There’s no such thing when it comes to intravenous drug use.”

“Hm, isn’t there? Of course, I also had the morphine drip from the hospital—”

“Wait, you were injecting heroin while in the bloody hospital?”

“Yes, of course. Where else would I have been doing it?”

“Christ, Sherlock—why didn’t you just—”

John trails off, but Sherlock jumps in.

“Why didn’t I go to you? Why didn’t I pick up the phone and say ‘John, I’m on the verge of a relapse’ instead of sending a text to Bill Wiggins? Maybe it’s because you couldn’t stand to be in the same room as me. You didn’t want to talk to me. What would you have done, if I had told you about any of this?”

“I—I—Look, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was terrible.”

Sherlock’s anger dissipates an instant later and now he just feels unbearably tired. “You were grieving, and you thought I was the reason you lost your wife. I don’t blame you.”

“You should. You should blame me.”

“Can we just drop this?”

“Yeah, sure, all right—for now at least. But we need to talk about how you want to handle this, going forward.”

“Handle what?”

“The drugs.”

“I’ve stopped.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I promise, John.”

“I believe you, Sherlock. I believe that right now you’re not planning on using again, but what happens if we get into a fight, and you’re pissed at me? What if something happens that triggers a flashback and I’m not around?”

“I’m not having flashbacks. I’m not some traumatized invalid—”

Sherlock stops midsentence, but John says, forcefully, “Of course, how could Sherlock bloody Holmes ever be so human as to suffer from trauma. No, not like poor, pathetic John Watson.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

John’s voice drops as he says, “It is what you meant, and that’s okay. I know it’s hard for you to come to terms with this, Sherlock. I know that you don’t always experience things like the rest of us, that you spent years training yourself not to be susceptible to these feelings, but you are human, and no one could go through something like this and come out unscathed.”

“Mycroft could.”

“Of course he couldn’t! If he watched you get blown up, I’m sure he’d never get over it. Even you have to realize that.”

“Moriarty could.”

“Moriarty was a monster. An inhuman psychopath who never felt anything other than boredom and anger.”

“Many people would describe me that way.”

“Yeah, but no one who actually knows you would think that.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

“Sherlock, I know you. I’m your best friend, remember?”

“You’re my only friend. Hardly much of a competition.”

“What about Lestrade? And Molly? Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders.

“How about Anderson?”

Sherlock fires back, “Anderson’s a sycophant and a stalker,” but his lips do quirk up a tiny bit in amusement.

“That’s what you get for having an international reputation.”

Sherlock’s smile comes through even more. “Very true. Even if my international reputation is for being a high functioning sociopath who solves murders for fun.”

More seriously, John says, “You’re not a sociopath, Sherlock, not at all.”

Sherlock doesn’t disagree. Instead, he says quietly, “I think it would be easier if I were.”

“Maybe some things would be, sure. But would you really trade places with someone like Moriarty?”

“No, of course not. But sometimes it’s—tempting.”

John looks at Sherlock with so much sympathy that Sherlock can barely stand it.

“I know you wish you could avoid feeling anything at all. But you are human, Sherlock, and you shouldn’t try to be anything other than that.”

John sounds so sure of himself, and Sherlock wishes he could be so easily convinced, but all he does is nod in response, and then he picks up his fork, and forces himself to start eating the food on his plate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The safe combination Sherlock mentions in this chapter “1-8-95” is a play on the fact that this was the number John’s blog was stuck at in A Scandal in Belgravia (and then it was a code he used to try to break into Irene Adler’s phone.) I believe in the DVD commentary, they explain the significance of that, namely that it’s the year when ACD published the Memoirs and therefore killed off Holmes (before bringing him back).
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! Thanks to everyone for reading and a special thanks to everyone who has commented on the story so far. I love to hear what you guys think of the story!
> 
> The next chapter is partially completed, and tentatively titled "Field Trip." I'm going to try to get it up some time in the next couple weeks, but I can't make any guarantees.


End file.
